THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE 


POEMS 


WILLIAM     WINTER. 


COMPLETE  EDITION. 


BOSTON: 

JAMES  R.   OSGOOD  AND  COMPANY. 
1881. 


Copyright,  1880, 
}y  WILLIAM  WINTER. 

All  Rights  Reserved. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS  : 
JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE. 


33V/ 
A' 


JOSEPH    JEFFERSON: 

AS   A   TRIBUTE  TO    EXQUISITE    GENIUS, 

NOBLY    USED 
rUROUGHOUT   A    PURE   AND    BENEFICENT   LIFE, 

AND    AS 
A   MEMORIAL   OF   CONSTANT    AFFECTION, 

THIS  BOOK  IS  DEDICATED 

BY   THE   AUTHOR. 


904270 


"That  >s  for  thoughts." 


PREFACE. 


This  collection,  although  called  complete,  does  not 
include  all  the  poems  that  its  aitthor  has  published ; 
but  it  comprises  all  that  he  cares  to  preserve.  In 
the  course  of  his  constant  literary  life,  extending 
aver  a  period  of  twenty-five  years,  Poetry,  -while 
the  main  motive  and  object  of  his  mental  activity, 
has  been  experienced  as  a  feeling, and  not  pursued  as 
a  design.  His  poems,  accordingly,  are  the  accidents 
of  impulse,  and  not  the  creations  of  artistic  inten- 
tion. His  fondness  for  them,  as  the  children  of  his 
love,  may  have  blinded  his  judgment  as  to  their 
value,  and  induced  him  to  seek  for  them  an  undue 
prominence.  He  is  aware,  however,  that  the  only 


vi  Preface. 

poetical  literature  really  essential  to  society  is  that 
•which  gives  adequate  expression  to  the  universal 
human  heart,  and  is  not  restricted  to  the  reflection 
of  an  individual  soul ;  and  no  personal  fondness 
for  his  own  works  would  have  persuaded  him  now 
to  offer  to  the  public  notice  these  little  lyrics  of  chance 
and  occasion,  but  for  many  and  urgent  requests 
which  have  been  addressed  to  him,  during  the  last 
two  or  three  years,  for  a  complete  collection  of  his 
poetical  writings.  These  requests,  and  the  fact  that 
his  previous  books  have  been  accepted,  and  are  now 
out  of  print,  apprize  him  that  his  poems  have  had 
the  good  fortune  to  meet  with  some  measure  of 
public  favour,  and  encourage  a  hope  that  the  pre- 
sentation of  them,  in  this  form,  will  not  be  deemed 
intrusive.  This  volume  contains  the  best  parts  of 
four  precedent  volumes,  carefully  revised,  together 
with  a  number  of  pieces  now  collected  for  the  first 
time.  The  desire  to  add  something,  of  vital  worth, 
to  pure  literature  is,  surely,  not  a  selfish  onej  and 
the  author  of  these  poems  is  wishful  to  believe  that 


Preface.  vii 

they  constitute  an  addition,  not  altogether  unworthy, 
however  ephemeral,  to  that  old  school  of  English 
Lyrical  Poetry,  of  which  gentleness  is  the  soul  and 

simplicity  the  garment. 

W.   IV. 

FORT  HILL,  NEW  BRIGHTON,  S.  I., 
July  28,  1880. 


'  For  you  there  's  rosemary  and  rue ;    these  keep 
Seeming  and  savour,  all  the  •winter  long." 


"  The  marigold,  that  goes  to  bed  •with  the  sun, 
And  with  him  rises  weeding." 


"  Lilies  of  all  kinds, 
The  flower-de-luce  being  one." 


'/  love  a  ballad  but  even  too  well;  if  it  be  doleful  matter 
merrily  set  down,  or  a  very  pleasant  thing  indeed,  and 
sung  lamentably." 

SHAKESPEARE. 


CONTENTS. 
* 

PAGE 

THE  BALLAD  OF  CONSTANCE 13 

LETHE 16 

THE  WHITE  FLAG 21 

BEAUTY 25 

VIOLET 28 

BEYOND  THE  DARK 32 

IN  A  CHURCHYARD 35 

DEATH'S  ANGEL 38 

MY  PALACES 40 

THE  VEILED  MUSE , 42 

AT  PEACE 45 

VICTORIA 47 

THE  IDEAL 49 

THE  WISH 51 

THE  TRIUMPH 52 

MY  QUEEN 54 

HOMAGE 56 

THE  CHOICE 58 


x  Contents. 

PAGE 

THE  QUESTION 60 

DOOM 62 

RELICS •  .    .  64 

WITHERED  ROSES 66 

CHANGED 69 

THE  REQUIEM 71 

REFUGE 73 

SEMPER  IDEM 75 

ACROSS  THE  BIER 77 

AFTER  LONG  YEARS 81 

THEIR  STORY 84 

EBB  TIDE 86 

THE  LAST  SCENE 87 

RUE 89 

AFTER  ALL 91 

PREDESTINED 93 

ORGIA 95 

EREBUS     . 99 

CIRCE TOO 

ROSEMARY 102 

THE  UNDERTONE 105 

THE  GOLDEN  SILENCE      107 

SOLACE 109 

EGERIA  ..'...             no 


Contents.  xi 

PACE 

A  DIRGE:  IN  MEMORY  OF  GEORGE  ARNOLD.    .  113 

A  DIRGE:  IN  MEMORY  OF  ADA  CLARE     .    .    .  116 

GOOD-BYE  TO  BROUGHAM 120 

HAND  IN  HAND 125 

COMRADES 130 

A  DIRGE  :  IN  MEMORY  OF  POE 135 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  SILENCE 137 

EDELWEISS 145 

A  PLEDGE  TO  THE  DEAD 147 

THE  CHIEFTAIN 151 

THE  LOTOS  FLOWER 156 

ELEGY  IN  ARLINGTON  CEMETERY 158 

GOOD-BYE  TO  BOOTH 164 

FIDELE 168 

LAST  WORD 170 


THE    BALLAD   OF   CONSTANCE. 


T  T  7ITH  diamond  dew  the  grass  was  wet, — 

'T  was  in  the  spring  and  gentlest  weather, 
And  all  the  birds  of  morning  met, 
And  carolled  in  her  heart  together. 


The  wind  blew  softly  o'er  the  land, 
And  softly  kissed  the  joyous  ocean  : 

He  walked  beside  her  on  the  sand, 
And  gave  and  won  a  heart's  devotion. 


The  thistledown  was  in  the  breeze, 
With  birds  of  passage  homeward  flying 

His  fortune  lured  him  o'er  the  seas, 
And  on  the  shore  he  left  her,  sighing. 


14  The  Ballad  of  Constance. 

She  saw  his  barque  glide  down  the  bay, 
Through  tears  and  fears  she  could  not  banish ; 

She  saw  his  white  sails  melt  away  — 
She  saw  them  fade,  she  saw  them  vanish. 

And  '  Go,'  she  said,  '  for  winds  are  fair, 
And  love  and  blessing  round  you  hover  ; 

When  you  sail  backward  through  the  air, 
Then  I  will  trust  the  word  of  lover.' 

Still  ebbed,  still  flowed,  the  tide  of  years, 

Now  chilled  with  snows,  now  bright  with  roses, 

And  many  smiles  were  turned  to  tears, 
And  sombre  morns  to  radiant  closes. 

And  many  ships  came  sailing  by, 

With  many  a  golden  promise  freighted  ; 

But  nevermore  from  sea  or  sky 

Came  love,  to  bless  her  heart  that  waited. 

Yet  on,  by  tender  patience  led, 

Her  sacred  footsteps  walked,  unbidden, 

Wherever  sorrow  bowed  its  head, 
Or  want,  and  care,  and  shame  were  hidden . 


The  Ballad  of  Consfance.  15 

And  they  who  saw  her  snow-white  hair, 
And  dark,  sad  eyes,  so  deep  with  feeling, 

Breathed  all  at  once  the  chancel  air, 
And  seemed  to  hear  the  organ  pealing. 

Till  once,  at  shut  of  autumn  day, 

In  marble  chill  she  paused  and  hearkened, 

With  startled  gaze  where  far  away 
The  wastes  of  sky  and  ocean  darkened. 

There  for  a  moment,  faint  and  wan, 
High  up  in  air,  and  landward  striving, 

Stern-fore  a  spectral  barque  came  on, 
Across  the  purple  sunset  driving. 

Then  something  out  of  night  she  knew, 

Some  whisper  heard,  from  heaven  descended, 

And  peacefully,  as  falls  the  dew, 
Her  long  and  lonely  vigil  ended. 

The  violet  and  the  bramble-rose 

Make  glad  the  grass  that  dreams  above  her  ; 
And,  freed  from  time  and  all  its  woes, 

She  trusts  again  the  word  of  lover. 


LETHE. 


OWEET  oblivion,  blood  of  grape, 
Let  me  take  thy  hue  and  shape 
Flood  this  heavy  heart  of  mine  ! 
Turn  it  into  ruddy  wine  ! 
Through  my  veins,  with  golden  glow, 
Airy  spirit,  flash  and  flow  ! 
Deify  this  clod  of  clay, 
And  waft  my  willing  soul  away  ! 


Dark  and  sad  my  fancies  are  — 
Tired  of  peace  and  tired  of  war. 
Joke  of  jester,  prank  of  clown 
Weigh  my  heavy  eyelids  down. 
All  philosophies  are  drear  ; 
Music  's  jargon  in  my  ear  ; 


Lethe.  17 

Endless  tides  of  empty  talk 
Bubble  round  me  where  I  walk  ; 
I  am  deafened  by  the  din 
That  the  world  is  wrangling  in. 

in. 

God  of  sunrise,  fiery  wine, 
Let  me  lose  my  soul  in  thine ! 
Close  my  eyes  and  stop  my  ears 
To  all  a  mortal  sees  or  hears  :  — 
Roll  of  drums,  and  clash  of  swords, 
Fretful  snarl  of  angry  words, 
Church,  and  state,  and  bond,  and  free, 
Party,  creed,  and  policy, 
Tattle,  prattle,  laugh,  and  groan, 
Crozier,  sceptre,  flag,  and  throne, 
Garrulous  and  grand  debate, 
Which  of  moles  is  small  or  great, 
Whom  to  pray  for,  who  shall  pray, 
And  what  the  agile  critics  say. 

IV. 

Sun  of  rubies,  radiant  wine, 
Melt  my  being  into  thine  !    - 


1 8  Lethe. 

So  my  dream  of  death  shall  bless 
Memory  with  forgetfulness. 
No  more  weary,  wasting  thought 
On  a  past  so  folly-fraught  ! 
No  more  dreams  of  love-lit  eyes, 
Silken  hair,  and  tender  sighs, 
And  wild  kisses  sweet,  that  shake 
The  frame  of  being !  —  poor  mistake  ! 
Nor  that  other,  just  as  poor,  — 
Toil  for  praise  of  sage  or  boor  ; 
Fire,  that  burnishes  a  crown, 
Fire,  that  burns  a  kingdom  down, 
Fire,  that  ravages  his  breast 
Who  takes  ambition  for  its  guest ! 
But  at  last,  instead  of  these, 
Sunset  cloud,  and  evening  breeze, 
Holy  starlight  shining  dim, 
Organ  wail,  and  vesper  hymn, 
Cypress  wreath,  and  asphodels, 
Gentle  toll  of  distant  bells,  — 
All  that  makes  the  sleeper  blest, 
In  a  bed  of  endless  rest. 


Lethe. 


When  this  farce  of  life  is  o'er, 

Are  we  fretted  any  more? 

Do  they  rest,  I  'd  like  to  know, 

Under  grass  or  under  snow, 

Who  have  gone  that  quiet  way 

You  and  I  must  go,  some  day  ? 

If  they  do,  it  seems  to  me 

Happy  were  it  thus  to  be 

Sleeping  where  the  blackb'ries  grow, 

And  the  bramble-roses  blow, 

And  the  sunshine  pours  its  gold 

On  mossy  rock  and  woodland  old, 

While  gentle  winds,  and  clouds  of  fleece, 

And  rippling  waters  whisper  —  peace  ! 


Vain  the  fancy  :  nothing  dies  : 
Falling  water  falls  to  rise  ; 
Round  and  round  the  atoms  fly,  — 
Turf,  and  stone,  and  sea,  and  sky, 
Vapour-drop,  and  blood  of  man,  — 
In  the  inexorable  plan. 


Lethe. 

All  is  motion  :  nothing  dies  : 
Mystery  of  mysteries  ! 


Royal  road  of  blest  escape  ! 
Sweet  oblivion,  blood  of  grape, 
Let  me  take  thy  hue  and  shape  ! 
In  thy  spirit,  floating  free, 
I  shall  be  a  reverie, 
A  flitting  thought,  a  fading  dream, 
A  melting  cloud,  a  faint  moonbeam, 
A  breath,  a  mist,  a  ghost  of  light, 
To  rise  and  vanish  in  the  night,  — 
Unseeing  all,  by  all  unseen, 
And  being  as  I  had  not  been. 


THE   WHITE    FLAG. 


T3RING  poppies  for  a  weary  mind 

That  saddens  in  a  senseless  din, 
And  let  my  spirit  leave  behind 

A  world  of  riot  and  of  sin,  — 
In  action's  torpor  deaf  and  blind. 

Bring  poppies  —  that  I  may  forget ! 

Bring  poppies  —  that  I  may  not  learn  ! 
But  bid  the  audacious  sun  to  set, 

And  bid  the  peaceful  starlight  burn 
O'er  buried  memory  and  regret. 

Then  will  the  slumberous  grasses  grow 
Above  the  bed  wherein  I  sleep  ; 

While  winds  I  love  will  softly  blow, 
And  dews  I  love  will  softly  weep, 

O'er  rest  and  silence  hid  below. 


2  The  White  Flag. 

Bring  poppies,  —  for  this  work  is  vain ! 

I  cannot  mould  the  clay  of  life. 
A  stronger  hand  must  grasp  the  rein, 

A  stouter  arm  annul  the  strife, 
A  braver  heart  defy  the  pain. 

Youth  was  my  friend,  —  but  Youth  had  wings, 

And  he  has  flown  unto  the  day, 
And  left  me,  in  a  night  of  things, 

Bewildered,  on  a  lonesome  way, 
And  careless  what  the  future  brings. 

Let  there  be  sleep  !  nor  any  more 
The  noise  of  useless  deed  or  word : 

While  the  free  spirit  hovers  o'er 
A  sea  where  not  a  sound  is  heard  — 

A  sea  of  dreams,  without  a  shore. 


Dark  Angel,  counselling  defeat, 
I  see  thy  mournful,  tender  eyes ; 

I  hear  thy  voice,  so  faint,  so  sweet, 
And  very  dearly  should  I  prize 

Thy  perfect  peace,  thy  rest  complete. 


The   White  Flag.  23 

But  is  it  rest  to  vanish  hence, 

To  mix  with  earth,  or  sea,  or  air  ? 
Is  death  indeed  a  full  defence 

Against  the  tyranny  of  care  ? 
Or  is  it  cruellest  pretence  ? 

And,  if  an  hour  of  peace  draws  nigh, 
Shall  we,  who  know  the  arts  of  war, 

Turn  from  the  field  and  basely  fly, 
Nor  take  what  Fate  reserves  us  for, 

Because  we  dream  'twere  sweet  to  die  ? 


What  shall  the  untried  warriors  do, 
If  we,  the  battered  veterans,  fail  ? 

How  strive,  and  suffer,  and  be  true, 
In  storms  that  make  our  spirits  quail, 

Except  our  valour  lead  them  through  ? 

Though  for  ourselves  we  droop  and  tire, 
Let  us  at  least  for  them  be  strong. 

'Tis  but  to  bear  familiar  fire; 
Life  at  the  longest  is  not  long, 

And  peace  at  last  will  crown  desire. 


24  The   White  Flag. 

So,  Death,  I  will  not  hear  thee  speak  ! 

But  I  will  labour  —  and  endure 
All  storms  of  pain  that  time  can  wreak. 

My  flag  be  white  because  'tis  pure, 
And  not  because  my  soul  is  weak  ! 


BEAUTY. 

T  HAD  a  dream,  one  glorious,  summer  night, 

In  the  rich  bosom  of  imperial  June. 
Languid  I  lay  upon  an  odourous  couch, 
Golden  with  amber,  festooned  wildly  o'er 
With  crimson  roses  ;  and  the  longing  stars 
Wept  tears  of  light  upon  their  clustered  leaves. 
Above  me  soared  the  azure  vault  of  heaven, 
Vast  and  majestic  ;  cinctured  with  that  path 
Whereby,  perchance,  the  sea-born  Venus  found 
Her  way  to  higher  spheres  ;  that  path  which  seems 
A  coronet  of  silver,  gemmed  with  stars, 
And  bound  upon  the  forehead  of  the  night. 
There,  as  I  lay,  the  musical  south  wind 
Shook  all  the  roses  into  murmurous  life, 
And  poured  their  fragrance  o'er  me,  in  a  shower 
Of  crimson  mist ;  and  softly,  through  the  mist, 
Came  a  low,  sweet,  enchanting  melody, 


26  Beauty. 

A  far-off  echo  from  the  land  of  dreams, 

Which  with  delicious  languor  filled  the  air, 

And  steeped  in  bliss  the  senses  and  the  soul. 

Then  rose  a  shape,  a  dim  and  ghostly  shape, 

Whereto  no  feature  was,  nor  settled  form, 

A  shadowy  splendour,  seeming  as  it  came 

A  pearly  summer  cloud,  shot  through  and  through 

With  faintest  rays  of  sunset ;  yet  within 

A  spirit  dwelt ;  and,  floating  from  within, 

A  murmur  trembled  sweetly  into  words  :  — 

I  am  the  ghost  of  a  most  lovely  dream, 

Which  haunted,  in  old  days,  a  poet's  mind. 

And  long  he  sought  for,  wept,  and  prayed  for  me  ; 

And  searched  through  all  the  chambers  of  his  soul, 

And  searched  the  secret  places  of  the  earth, 

The  lonely  forest  and  the  lonely  shore  ; 

And  listened  to  the  voices  of  the  sea, 

What  time  the  stars  shone  out.  and  midnight  cold 

Slept  on  the  dark  waves  whispering  at  his  feet  ; 

And  sought  the  mystery  in  a  human  form, 

Amid  the  haunts  of  men,  and  found  it  not ; 

And  looked  in  woman's  fond,  bewildering  eyes, 

And  mirrored  there  his  own,  and  saw  no  sign  : 


Beatity.  2  7 

But  only  in  his  sleep  I  came  to  him, 

And  gave  him  fitful  glimpses  of  my  face, 

Whereof  he  after  sang,  in  sweetest  words  ; 

Then  died,  and  came  to  me.     But  evermore, 

Through  lonely  days,  and  passion-haunted  nights, 

A  life  of  starlit  gloom,  do  poets  seek 

To  rend  the  mystic  veil  that  covers  me, 

And  evermore  they  grasp  the  empty  air. 

For  only  in  their  dreams  I  come  to  them, 

And  give  them  fitful  glimpses  of  my  face, 

And  lull  them,  siren-like,  with  words  of  hope  — 

That  promise,  sometime,  to  their  ravished  eyes, 

Beauty,  the  secret  of  the  universe, 

God's  thought,  that  gives  the  soul  eternal  peace. 

Then  the  voice  ceased,  and  only,  through  the  mist, 
The  shaken  roses  murmured,  and  the  wind. 


VIOLET. 


/~\NE  name  I  shall  not  forget  — 
^^     Gentle  name  of  Violet. 


Many  and  Strange,  the  years  have  sped 
She  who  bore  that  name  is  dead ; 

Dead  —  and  resting  by  the  sea, 
Where  she  gave  her  heart  to  me. 

Dead  —  and  now  the  grasses  wave, 
And  the  dry  leaves,  o'er  her  grave, 

Rustling  in  the  autumn  wind, 
Like  the  sad  thoughts  in  my  mind. 

She  was  light,  and  soon  forgot ; 
Loved  me  well,  and  loved  me  not : 

Changeful  as  the  April  sky  — 
Kind  or  cruel,  sad  or  shy ; 


Violet.  29 

Gray-eyed,  winsome,  arch,  and  fair  — 
My  youth's  passion  and  despair. 

Now,  through  storms  of  many  years, 
Now,  through  tender  mist  of  tears, 

Looking  backward,  I  can  see 
She  was  always  true  to  me. 

Yet,  with  prisoned  tears  that  burn, 
Cold  we  parted,  wayward,  stern  ; 

Spoke  the  quiet,  farewell  word, 
Neither  meant  and  neither  heard  ; 

Spoke  — and  parted  in  our  pain, 
Nevermore  to  meet  again. 

Sometimes,  underneath  the  moon, 
On  rose-laden  nights  of  June,  — 

When  white  clouds  drift  o'er  the  blue, 
While  the  pale  stars  glimmer  through, 


30  Violet. 

And  the  honeysuckle  throws 
Flagrant  challenge  to  the  rose, 

And  the  liberal  pine-tree  flings 
Perfume  on  the  midnight's  wings,  — 

Came,  with  thrills  of  hope  and  fear, 
Mystic  sense  that  she  was  near  ; 

Came  the  thought,  —  Through  good  and  ill 
She  loves,  and  she  remembers  still ! 

But  no  word  e'er  came,  or  went ; 
And,  when  nine  long  years  were  spent, 

Something  in  my  bosom  said, 
Very  softly,  —  she  is  dead  ! 

Now,  at  sombre  autumn  eve, 
Wandering  where  the  woodlands  grieve, 

Or  where  wild  winds  whistle  free, 
On  the  hills  that  front  the  sea, 


Violet.  3 1 

Cruel  thoughts  of  love  and  loss 
Nail  my  spirit  to  the  cross. 

Friends  have  fallen,  youth  is  gone, 
Fields  are  brown  and  skies  are  wan : 

One  name  I  shall  not  forget  — 
Gentle  name  of  Violet. 


BEYOND   THE   DARK. 


HPHERE  'S  a  region  afar  from  earth 
•*•      Should  be  very  happy  to-day  ; 
For  a  sweet  soul,  ripe  for  its  birth, 
Has  gone  from  this  world  away. 


And  I  think,  as  I  sit  alone, 

While  the  night  is  falling  around, 

Of  a  cold,  white,  gleaming  stone, 
And  a  long,  lone,  grassy  mound  ; 


And  of  what  rests  under  the  sod,  — 
The  poor,  pale  face ;  the  still  brain, 

Left  awfully  still  by  the  spirit  of  God, 
That  has  gone  to  Him  again  ; 


Beyond  the  Dark.  33 

The  eyes  that  will  shine  no  more, 
The  hands  that  have  done  their  task ;  — 

And  my  heart  is  heavy  and  sore, 
And  my  thought  is  eager  to  ask 

If  all  will,  at  last,  be  well 

In  the  realms  beyond  the  dark  ; 
What  secret  the  pallid  lips  could  tell 

Of  the  sleeper,  quiet  and  stark. 

But  there  comes  a  murmur  of  trees, 

That  wave  their  arms,  and  bring 
Blossoms,  and  leaves,  to  shake  in  the  breeze, 

From  spring  to  spring ; 

And  they  whisper  that  all  is  well, 

For  the  same  hand  guides  us  all, 
Whether  'tis  seen  in  a  man's  death-knell, 

Or  in  the  leaves  that  fall. 

And  so  many  have  gone  before, 

That  the  voice  of  another  sphere 
Floats  often  from- over  a  sable  shore, 

And  pierces  the  mist  of  fear. 
3 


34  Beyond  the  Dark. 

O  tender  heart  that  is  still, 

You  will  falter  with  trouble  no  more, 
Nor  know  of  the  good  or  the  ill 

Of  a  frantic  world's  uproar  ! 

Nor  heed  the  great  or  the  small 
Of  a  strange,  bewildering  life, 

That  often  seems  dust  and  ashes  all, 
And  is  mostly  a  vapid  strife  ! 

For  the  end  is  the  peace  of  grass, 
And  God's  peace,  ever  to  be  : 

The  one  for  us  to  feel  as  we  pass, 
The  other  enshrining  thee. 

Clouds  sail,  and  waters  flow, 
And  our  souls  must  journey  on  ; 

But  it  cannot  be  ill  to  go 

The  way  that  thou  hast  gone. 


IN    A    CHURCHYARD. 

HPHE  lonesome  wind  of  autumn  grieves; 

The  northern  lights  are  seen ; 
October  sheds  her  changing  leaves 

Upon  the  churchyard  green, 
Where,  sitting  pensive  in  the  sun, 

While  fading  grasses  wave, 
I  watch  the  crickets  leap  and  run, 

Upon  a  stranger's  grave. 

There  is  no  sigh  of  fluttering  leaf, 

No  sob  of  rustling  grass  ; 
The  breezes  o'er  this  place  of  grief 

In  breathless  whisper  pass  ; 
Yet,  like  a  murmur  in  a  dream, 

Purls  on  that  insect  voice  — 
That  vacant  tone,  which  does  not  seem 

To  mourn  or  to  rejoice. 


36  ///  a  Churchyard. 

Atone  that  hath  no  soothing  grace, 

A  tone  that  nothing  saith, 
A  tone  that 's  like  this  solemn  place 

Of  memory,  tears,  and  death  — 
It  darkens  hope,  it  deepens  gloom, 

Black  dread,  and  doubt  profound, 
Turning  the  silence  of  the  tomb 

To  more  mysterious  sound. 


There 's  night  upon  the  face  of  fame  ; 

There  's  night  on  beauty's  eyes  ; 
Nor  pure  renown  nor  glorious  shame 

From  out  their  ashes  rise  : 
In  vain  the  shrines  of  prayer  are  trod  — 

Nor  sound  nor  silence  breathe 
The  thought  that  flowers  upon  this  sod, 

The  secret  hid  beneath. 


Ah,  piteous,  desolate,  and  drear 
This  nameless  stranger's  sleep, 

O'er  which  the  slowly  dying  year 
Is  all  that  seems  to  weep! 


In  *  a  Ch  urcti)  'ard.  3  7 

God  help  him,  in  that  bitter  day,— 

His  heart,  his  reason  save,  — 
Who  hears  the  crickets  chirp,  at  play, 

Upon  his  darling's  grave  ! 


DEATH'S    ANGEL. 


with  a  smile,  when  come  thou  must, 
^•""     Evangel  of  the  world  to  be, 
And  touch  and  glorify  this  dust,  — 

This  shuddering  dust,  that  now  is  me,  — 
And  from  this  prison  set  me  free  ! 

Long  in  those  awful  eyes  I  quail, 
That  gaze  across  the  grim  profound  : 

Upon  that  sea  there  is  no  sail, 
Nor  any  light  nor  any  sound 
From  the  far  shore  that  girds  it  round  : 

Only  —  two  still  and  steady  rays 
That  those  twin  orbs  of  doom  o'ertop; 

Only  —  a  quiet,  patient  gaze 
That  drinks  my  being,  drop  by  drop, 
And  bids  the  pulse  of  nature  stop. 


Death's  Angel.  39 

Come  with  a  smile,  auspicious  friend, 
To  usher  in  the  eternal  day  ! 

Of  these  weak  terrors  make  an  end. 
And  charm  the  paltry  chains  away 
That  bind  me  to  this  timorous  clay  ! 

And  let  me  know  my  soul  akin 

To  sunrise,  and  the  winds  of  morn, 

And  every  grandeur  that  has  been 

Since  this  all-glorious  world  was  born,  — 
Nor  longer  droop  in  my  own  scorn. 

Come,  when  the  way  grows  dark  and  chill ! 

Come,  when  the  baffled  mind  is  weak, 
And  in  the  heart  that  voice  is  still, 

Which  used  in  happier  days  to  speak, 

Or  only  whispers,  sadly  meek. 

Come  with  a  smile  that  dims  the  sun  ! 

With  pitying  heart  and  gentle  hand! 
And  waft  me,  from  a  work  that 's  done, 

To  peace,  that  waits  on  thy  command, 

In  some  mysterious  better  land. 


MY    PALACES 


r  I  ^HEY  rose  in  beauty  on  the  plains 
•*•      Through  which  my  childhood  danced  in  glee, 
When  roses  wreathed  my  idle  chains, 
And  holy  angels  talked  with  me. 


They  rose  sublime  on  mountain  heights 
Whereto  my  ardent  youth  aspired,  — 

Through  silver  days  and  golden  nights, 
Ere  yet  my  heart  grew  dull  and  tired. 


Their  stately  towers  were  all  aflame 

With  rosy  hues  of  morning  light ; 
For  hope,  and  love,  and  power,  and  fame 

Burned  on  their  peaks  and  made  them  bright. 


My  Palaces.  41 

Now  brown  and  level  fields  expand 

Around  me,  as  I  hold  my  way 
Through  barren  hills  on  either  hand, 

And  under  skies  of  sober  grey. 

No  radiant  towers  in  distance  rise, 

On  soaring  mountains  strong  and  glad  ; 

No  gorgeous  banners  flaunt  the  skies,  — • 
But  all  the  scene  is  calm  and  sad. 

Yet  here  and  there,  along  the  plain, 
A  flower  lights  up  the  fading  grass  ; 

And  whispering  wind  and  rustling  rain 
Make  gentle  music  as  I  pass. 

And  now  and  then  a  happy  face, 
And  now  and  then  a  cheerful  thought, 

Give  to  the  scene  a  pensive  grace, 
The  sweeter  that  it  comes  unsought. 

And,  looking  past  all  earthly  ill, 
I  know  there  is  an  hour  of  rest,  — 

In  a  dark  palace,  lowly,  still, 
And  sacred  to  the  weary  guest. 


THE    VEILED    MUSE. 


SPIRIT  of  Beauty,  haunt  me  not ! 
Thou  bring'st  insufferable  pain  : 
Thou,  who  art  gone,  be  thou  forgot, 

Nor  rise  to  vex  my  rest  again, 
Either  with  memories  sadly  sweet, 
Or  hopes  foredoomed  to  dull  defeat ! 

Ah,  come  no  more  in  rustling  leaves, 
Or  peaceful  grass,  or  breath  of  flowers  ! 

Enough  this  baffled  spirit  grieves, 
Remembering  thee  in  rosy  hours  : 

Spare  it  the  throbs  of  hope  and  fear,  — 

The  cruel  sense  that  thou  art  near  ! 

The  passion  dies  within  my  soul ; 

The  music  dies  within  my  brain ; 
Save  when  there  comes  a  funeral  toll  — 

A  low,  lamenting,  sad  refrain, 


The  Veiled  Muse. 

An  echo  from  that  shrine  of  song 
Long  darkened,  and  deserted  long. 

In  what  was  fair  I  once  had  part, 
But  all  fair  things  are  now  my  shame  : 

Their  nameless  beauty  hurts  my  heart, 
Because  I  cannot  speak  its  name  : 

Spoken,  't  would  make  my  soul  rejoice  ; 

But,  O,  I  cannot  give  it  voice. 

Once  in  these  veins  the  blood  was  warm  ; 

With  ardent  hope  this  heart  beat  high  ; 
And  the  great  gales  that  proudly  storm 

The  loftiest  ramparts  of  the  sky 
Were  not  more  daring,  fierce,  and  strong 
Than  this  now  silent  soul  of  song. 

But  wasted  now  that  youth  of  gold, 
Not  heaven  itself  again  could  give ; 

And  he  to  die  may  well  be  bold 
Who  is  not  bold  enough  to  live  — 

In  haunted  silence  of  disgrace, 

Where  hushed  thy  voice  and  veiled  thy  face. 


44  The  Veiled  Muse. 

Ah,  come  no  more  to  do  me  wrong, 
In  twilight  hours  of  tender  dream, 

When  this  worn  spirit  seems  less  strong 
Than  evening  mist  that  shrouds  the  stream. 

Though  love  be  dead,  at  least  retain 

Some  pity  for  thy  lover's  pain  : 

Remembering  still,  though  all  be  past, 
That  thou  and  I  clasped  hands  in  youth  : 

I  saw  thee  close,  I  held  thee  fast, 

Plucked  kisses  from  thy  rosy  mouth  — 

Learning  the  bliss  which  now  I  weep, 

The  love  I  won,  but  could  not  keep. 


AT   PEACE. 


trees,  and  quiet  fields,  and  sunset  light, 
^^     With  holy  silence,  save  for  rippling  leaves 
And  birds  that  twitter  of  the  coming  night, 

Calling  their  mates,  beneath  my  cottage  eaves  — 
These  Fate  hath  granted  for  a  little  space 

To  be  companions  of  my  pilgrimage, 
Filling  my  grateful  heart  with  nature's  grace. 


Not  unremembered  here  life's  garish  stage, 

Nor  the  wild  city's  uproar,  nor  the  race 
For  gain  and  power,  in  which  we  all  engage  ; 

But  here  remembered  dimly,  in  a  dream, 
As  something  fretful  that  hath  ceased  to  fret  — 

Here,  where  time  lapses  like  a  gentle  stream, 
Hid  in  the  woodland's  heart,  and  I  forget 

To  note  its  music  and  its  silver  gleam. 


46  At  Peace. 

But  never,  never  let  me  cease  to  know, 

O  whispering  woods  and  daisy-sprinkled  grass, 

The  beauty  and  the  peace  that -you  bestow, 
When  the  wild  fevers  of  ambition  pass, 

And  the  worn  spirit,  in  its  gloom  and  grief, 

Sinks  on  your  bosom  and  there  finds  relief ! 


VICTORIA. 


A  /T I  DNIGHTand  moonlight  encircle  her  slumbers, 

Pillowed,  afar,  on  the  wandering  deep: 
Softly,  ah  softly,  with  tenderest  numbers, 
Echoes  of  Paradise,  lull  her  to  sleep ! 


Stars  in  your  lustre,  and  clouds  in  your  fleetness, 
Mix  round  the  gallant  ship,  breasting  the  gale  ! 

Shed  your  sweet  influence  over  her  sweetness  ! 
Guard  every  bulwark  and  bless  every  sail ! 


Billows,  roll  gently,  that  bear  on  your  bosom 
Treasure  more  precious  than  infinite  gold  — 

Beauty  in  spring-time  and  love  in  its  blossom, 
All  that  my  hungry  heart  longs  to  enfold. 


48  Victoria. 

Ocean,  that  breaks  on  the  rocks  where  I  languish, 
Blessing  and  prayer  on  your  surges  to  pour, 

Like,  in  your  might,  to  my  passionate  anguish, 
Shield  her,  and  save  her,  and  waft  her  to  shore  ! 

Angels,  that  float  in  the  heavenly  spaces, 

Ah,  while  you  guide  her  through  perils  unknown, 

Still  let  the  light  of  your  beautiful  faces 
Shine  on  her  face  that  is  fair  as  your  own  ! 

Violets,  welcome  her!  roses,  adore  her  — 
Blushing  with  rapture  from  mountain  to  sea  ! 

Lilies,  flash  out  on  the  meadows  before  her, 
Sparkle  in  glory,  and  ripple  in  glee  ! 

Proudly  she  comes,  like  the  pageant  of  morning 
Borne  through  the  pearl-purpled  gates  of  the  day  ! 

Darkness  and  sorrow,  consumed  in  her  scorning, 
Shrink  from  her  splendour,  and  vanish  away. 

Scattered  o'er  mountain,  and  forest,  and  river, 
Far  the  dark  phantoms  of  trouble  are  hurled  : 

She  will  illuminate,  she  will  deliver, 

She  will  redeem  and  transfigure  the  world  ! 


THE    IDEAL. 


T  TER  young  face  is  good  and  fair, 

Lily-white  and  rosy-red ; 
And  the  brown  and  silken  hair 
Hovers,  mist-like,  round  her  head. 


And  her  voice  is  soft  and  low, 
Clear  as  music,  and  as  sweet ; 

Hearing  it,  you  hardly  know 
Where  the  sound  and  silence  meet 

All  the  magic  who  can  tell 

Of  her  laughter  and  her  sighs  ? 

Or  what  heavenly  meanings  dwell 
In  her  kind,  confiding  eyes? 


50  The  Ideal. 

Pretty  lips,  as  rubies  bright, 
Scarcely  hide  the  tiny  pearls  ; 

Little  wandering  stars  of  light 
Love  to  nestle  in  her  curls. 

All  her  ways  are  winning  ways, 
Full  of  tenderness  and  grace  ; 

And  a  witching  sweetness  plays 
Fondly  o'er  her  gentle  face. 

True  and  pure  her  soul  within,  — 
Breathing  a  celestial  air  ! 

Evil  and  the  shame  of  sin 

Could  not  dwell  a  moment  there. 

Is  it  but  a  vision,  this  ? 

Fond  creation  of  the  brain  ? 
Phantom  of  a  fancied  bliss  ? 

Type  of  beauty  void  and  vain  ? 

No  !  the  tides  of  being  roll 

Toward  a  heaven  that 's  yet  to  be, 

Where  this  idol  of  my  soul 

Waits  and  longs  for  love  and  me  ! 


THE    WISH. 


'"THINK  of  me  as  your  friend,  I  pray, 

And  call  me  by  a  tender  name  : 
I  will  not  care  what  others  say, 

If  only  you  remain  the  same  ! 
I  will  not  care  how  dark  the  night, 

I  will  not  care  how  wild  the  storm  : 
Your  love  will  fill  my  heart  with  light, 

And  shield  me  close,  and  keep  me  warm. 

II. 
Think  of  me  as  your  friend,  I  pray, 

For  else  my  life  is  little  worth  : 
So  shall  your  memory  light  my  way, 

Although  we  meet  no  more  on  earth : 
For  while  I  know  your  faith  secure, 

I  ask  no  happier  fate  to  see  : 
Thus  to  be  loved  by  one  so  pure 

Is  honour  rich  enough  for  me. 


THE    TRIUMPH. 


O  URGE  up  in  wanton  waves  to-day, 
Ye  memories  of  a  restless  Past ! 
In  shine  and  shadow  glance  and  play,  — 
This  golden  moment  is  your  last. 


Float,  phantoms,  o'er  a  sapphire  sea,  — 
Remembered  joy,  remembered  pain, 

Passions  and  fears  that  used  to  be, 
But  never  can  be  mine  again  ! 


Sweet  visions,  faded  long  ago, 
So  beautiful,  and  once  so  dear,  — 

That  wrought  my  bliss,  that  wrought  my  woe, 
Your  welcome  and  farewell  are  here. 


The  Triumph.  53 

For  now  no  more  can  fancy  wile 
My  steadfast  soul  with  dreams  untrue  : 

I  give  you  each  a  parting  smile, 
I  give  you  all  a  glad  adieu. 

Henceforth,  for  me,  the  Past  is  dead, 
And  sunken  deep  in  Lethe's  waves  : 

Firm  is  the  ground  whereon  I  tread, 
That  will  not  know  the  shape  of  graves. 

As  one  whose  soul,  in  second  birth, 
Attains  its  natural  height  and  scope, 

I  spurn  away  the  dust  of  earth, 
I  scale  the  radiant  peaks  of  hope. 

The  sunshine  wraps  me  in  its  arms, 
North  winds  of  power  around  me  blow, 

And  heaven  's  ablaze  with  starry  charms 
To  bless  the  path  whereon  I  go. 

For  mine  is  now  the  ardent  truth 

And  secret  of  the  lover's  kiss  ; 
The  valley  of  immortal  youth  ; 

The  sacred  mountain-height  of  bliss  ! 


MY    QUEEN. 


T  TE  loves  not  well  whose  love  is  bold  ! 

I  would  not  have  thee  come  too  nigh 
The  sun's  gold  would  not  seem  pure  gold 

Unless  the  sun  were  in  the  sky : 
To  take  him  thence  and  chain  him  near 
Would  make  his  beauty  disappear. 

He  keeps  his  state,  —  do  thou  keep  thine, 
And  shine  upon  me  from  afar  ! 

So  shall  I  bask  in  light  divine, 

That  falls  from  love's  own  guiding  star  ; 

So  shall  thy  eminence  be  high, 

And  so  my  passion  shall  not  die. 

But  all  my  life  will  reach  its  hands 
Of  lofty  longing  toward  thy  face, 


My  Queen.  55 

And  be  as  one  who  speechless  stands 

In  rapture  at  some  perfect  grace  ! 
My  love,  my  hope,  my  all,  will  be 
To  look  to  heaven  and  look  to  thee  ! 

Thy  eyes  will  be  the  heavenly  lights  ; 

Thy  voice  the  gentle  summer  breeze, 
What  time  it  sways,  on  moonlit  nights, 

The  murmuring  tops  of  leafy  trees  ; 
And  I  will  touch  thy  beauteous  form 
In  June's  red  roses,  rich  and  warm. 

But  thou  thyself  shalt  come  not  down 
From  that  pure  region  far  above  ; 

But  keep  thy  throne  and  wear  thy  crown, 
Queen  of  my  heart  and  queen  of  love ! 

A  monarch  in  thy  realm  complete, 

And  I  a  monarch  —  at  thy  feet ! 


HOMAGE. 

"T  T  7HITE  daisies  on  the  meadow  green 
Present  thy  beauteous  form  to  me  : 
Peaceful  and  joyful  these  are  seen, 

And  peace  and  joy  encompass  thee. 
I  watch  them,  where  they  dance  and  shine, 
And  love  them  —  for  their  charm  is  thine. 

Red  roses  o'er  the  woodland  brook 
Remember  me  thy  lovely  face  : 

So  blushing  and  so  fresh  its  look, 
So  wild  and  shy  its  radiant  grace  ! 

I  kiss  them,  in  their  coy  retreat, 

And  think  of  lips  more  soft  and  sweet. 

Gold  arrows  of  the  merry  morn, 
Shot  swiftly  over  orient  seas  ; 


Homage.  57 

Gold  tassels  of  the  bending  corn 

That  ripple  in  the  August  breeze, 
Thy  wildering  smile,  thy  glorious  hair, 
And  all  thy  power  and  state  declare. 

4 

White,  red,  and  gold  —  the  awful  crown 

Of  beauty  and  of  virtue  too  ! 
From  what  a  height  those  eyes  look  down 

On  him  who  proudly  dares  to  sue  ! 
Yet,  free  from  self  as  God  from  sin 
Is  love  that  loves,  nor  asks  to  win. 

Let  me  but  love  thee  in  the  flower, 
The  waving  grass,  the  dancing  wave, 

The  fragrant  pomp  of  garden  bower, 
The  violet  on  the  nameless  grave, 

Sweet  dreams  by  night,  sweet  thoughts  by  day,  — 

And  time  shall  tire  ere  love  decay ! 

Let  me  but  love  thee  in  the  glow 
When  morning  on  the  ocean  shines, 

Or  in  the  mighty  winds  that  blow, 

Snow-laden,  through  the  mountain  pines  — 

In  all  that 's  fair,  or  grand,  or  dread, 

And  all  shall  die  ere  love  be  dead  ! 


THE    CHOICE. 


HTHE  stroller  in  the  pensive  field 

Doth  many  a  wilder  ing  flower  descry 
Sometimes  to  him  the  roses  yield  ; 

Sometimes  the  lilies  feed  his  eye  ; 
Sometimes  he  takes  delight  in  one, 
Sometimes  in  all,  sometimes  in  none. 

But  when,  in  dusky  woodland  ways, 
He  sees,  beside  some  dreaming  stone, 

The  fresh,  untutored  violet  raise 
Her  pleading  eyes  for  him  alone, 

Then  makes  his  heart  its  final  choice, 

And  nature  speaks,  in  passion's  voice. 

The  stroller  beauty's  garden  through, 
By  many  a  wayward  impulse  led,  — 


The  Choice. 

Sometimes  is  charmed  by  gold  and  blue, 

Sometimes  by  brown  and  mantling  red  ; 
Sometimes  proud  dame  and  maiden  small 
Please  just  the  same,  or  not  at  all. 

But  when,  remote  from  pleasure's  whirl, 
He  sees,  at  home's  sequestered  shrine, 

The  ardent,  cheerful,  guileless  girl, 
Of  mortal  mould,  but  soul  divine,  — 

Too  good,  too  beautiful,  to  know 

How  fair  her  worth  and  beauty  show  ; 

Then  all  his  roving  fancies  pause, 

Entranced  by  this  o'erwhelming  grace  ; 

It  rules  him  by  celestial  laws, 
It  lights  a  splendour  in  his  face  : 

'T  is  the  best  good  that  Fate  can  give  — 

And  won,  he  just  begins  to  live  ! 


S9 


THE   QUESTION. 


T3ECAUSE  love's  sigh  is  but  a  sigh, 
•^     Doth  it  the  less  love's  heart  disclose  ? 
Because  the  rose  must  fade  and  die, 

Is  it  the  less  the  lovely  rose  ? 
Because  black  night  must  shroud  the  day, 
Shall  the  brave  sun  no  more  be  gay  ? 

Because  chill  autumn  frights  the  birds, 
Shall  we  distrust  that  spring  will  come  ? 

Because  sweet  words  are  only  words, 
Shall  love  forevermore  be  dumb  ? 

Because  our  bliss  is  fleeting  bliss, 

Shall  we  who  love  forbear  to  kiss  ? 

Because  those  eyes  of  gentle  mirth 

Must  sometime  cease  my  heart  to  thrill. 


The  Question.  61 

Because  the  sweetest  voice  on  earth 

Sooner  or  later  must  be  still, 
Because  its  idol  is  unsure, 
Shall  my  strong  love  the  less  endure  ? 

Ah,  no  !  let  lovers  breathe  their  sighs, 
And  roses  bloom,  and  music  sound, 

And  passion  burn  on  lips  and  eyes, 
And  pleasure's  merry  world  go  round  : 

Let  golden  sunshine  flood  the  sky, 

And  let  me  love,  or  let  me  die ! 


DOOM. 


A     RAVEN  flew  over  the  house-top, 

In  the  gloaming  that  heralds  the  night 
Far  off  snarled  the  threat  of  the  thunder, 
And  the  raven  he  croaked  in  his  flight. 


A  raven  flew  over  the  house-top, 

And  his  shadow  fell  dark  on  my  heart : 

A  voice,  in  its  innermost  chamber, 
Said,  '  The  angel  of  love  must  depart. 


Too  long  you  are  calm  in  the  sunshine, 
And  too  long  are  the  roses  in  bloom  : 

Time  now  for  the  rush  of  the  tempest, 
For  the  chill,  and  the  blight,  and  the  gloom. 


Doom.  63 

Deserted  the  house  is,  and  silent ; 

Even  storm  is  too  gentle  to  rave  : 
For  Love,  that  made  living  celestial, 

Is  a  spectre  that  dreams  on  a  grave. 


RELICS. 


'T^HE  violets  that  you  gave  are  dead  — 
•*-      They  could  not  bear  the  loss  of  you 
The  spirit  of  the  rose  has  fled  — 

It  loved  you,  and  its  love  was  true  : 
Back  to  your  lips  that  spirit  flies, 
To  bask  beneath  your  radiant  eyes. 

Only  the  ashes  bide  with  me, 

The  ashes  of  the  ruined  flowers  — 

Types  of  a  rapture  not  to  be ; 
Sad  relics  of  bewildering  hours  ; 

Poor,  frail,  forlorn,  and  piteous  shows 

Of  errant  passion's  wasted  woes. 

He  grandly  loves  who  loves  in  vain  : 
These  withered  flowers  that  lesson  teach 


Relics.  65 

They  suffered,  they  did  not  complain, 

Their  life  was  love  too  great  for  speech. 
In  silent  pride  their  fate  they  bore ; 
They  loved,  they  grieved,  they  died  —  no  more  ! 

Far  off  the  purple  banners  flare, 

Beneath  the  golden  morning  spread  : 

I  know  what  queen  is  worshipped  there. 
What  laurels  wreathe  her  lovely  head  : 

Her  name  be  sacred,  in  my  thought, 

And  sacred  be  the  grief  she  brought ! 

For,  since  I  saw  that  glorious  face, 

And  heard  the  music  of  that  voice, 
Much  beauty  's  fallen  to  disgrace 

That  used  to  make  my  heart  rejoice  ; 
And  rose  and  violet  ne'er  can  be 
The  same  that  once  they  were  to  me. 


WITHERED   ROSES. 


IV TOT  made  by  worth,  nor  marred  by  flaw, 

Not  won  by  good,  nor  lost  by  ill, 
Love  is  its  own  and  only  law, 

And  lives  and  dies  by  its  own  will. 
It  was  our  fate,  and  not  our  sin, 
That  we  should  love,  and  love  should  win. 


Not  bound  by  oath,  nor  stayed  by  prayer, 
Nor  held  by  thirst  of  strong  desire, 

Love  lives  like  fragrance  in  the  air, 
And  dies  as  breaking  waves  expire. 

'T  was  death,  not  falsehood,  bade  us  part  — 

The  death  of  love,  that  broke  my  heart. 


Withered  Itoses.  67 


Not  kind,  as  dreaming  poets  think, 
Nor  merciful,  as  sages  say  — 

Love  heeds  not  where  its  victims  sink, 
When  once  its  passion  ebbs  away. 

'T  was  nature  —  it  was  not  disdain  — 

That  made  thee  careless  of  my  pain. 


Not  thralled  by  law,  nor  ruled  by  right, 
Love  keeps  no  audit  with  the  skies  : 

Its  star,  that  once  is  quenched  in  night, 
Has  set  —  and  nevermore  will  rise. 

My  soul  is  lost,  by  thee  forgot ; 

And  there  's  no  heaven  where  thou  art  not. 


But  happy  he,  though  scathed  and  lone, 
Who  sees  afar  love's  fading  wings,  — 

Whose  seared  and  blighted  heart  has  known 
The  splendid  agony  it  brings  ! 

No  life  that  is,  no  life  to  be 

Can  ever  take  the  Past  from  me  ! 


68  Withered  Roses. 


Red  roses,  bloom  for  other  lives  — 
Your  withered  leaves  alone  are  mine  : 

Yet,  not  for  all  that  Time  survives 
Would  I  your  heavenly  gift  resign  — 

Now  cold  and  dead,  once  warm  and  true, 

The  love  that  lived  and  died  in  you. 


CHANGED. 

T  T  is  not  that  she 's  far  away 

That  breaks  the  heart  and  dims  the  day 
It  is  that  there  is  something  gone 
Her  passion  used  to  dream  upon,  — 
That  now  the  tender  dream  is  o'er, 
And  him  she  loved  she  loves  no  more. 

Her  absence  makes  my  spirit  mourn  — 
Yet,  e'en  her  absence  could  be  borne  : 
But,  —  bleakest  of  all  human  grief, 
And  desolate  beyond  relief,  — 
One  thought  consumes  my  bosom's  core  — 
That  him  she  loved  she  loves  no  more. 

The  violets  should  be  bluer  far, 
The  roses  redder  than  they  are, 


70  Changed. 

And  lighter  o'er  the  rippling  grass 
The  shadows  of  the  cloudlets  pass. 
There's  nothing  as  it  was  before  — 
For  him  she  loved  she  loves  no  more. 


THE    REQUIEM. 

"OR ING  withered  autumn  leaves, 

Call  everything  that  grieves, 
And  build  a  funeral  pyre  above  his  head ! 
Heap  there  all  golden  promise  that  deceives, 
Beauty,  that  wins  the  heart,  and  then  bereaves,  • 
For  Love  is  dead. 

Not  slowly  did  he  die  : 
A  meteor  from  the  sky 
Falls  not  so  swiftly  as  his  spirit  fled, 
When,  with  regretful,  half-averted  eye, 
He  gave  one  little  smile,  one  little  sigh, 
And  so  was  sped. 

But  O,  not  yet,  not  yet 
Would  my  lost  soul  forget 


72  The  Requiem. 

How  beautiful  he  was  while  he  did  live  ; 
Or,  when  his  eyes  were  dewy  and  lips  wet, 
What  kisses,  tenderer  than  all  regret, 
My  love  would  give. 

Strew  roses  on  his  breast ! 
He  loved  the  roses  best ; 
He  never  cared  for  lilies  or  for  snow. 
Let  be  this  bitter  end  of  his  sweet  quest ; 
Let  be  the  pallid  silence  that  is  rest  — 
And  let  all  go  ! 


REFUGE. 


O  ET  your  face  to  the  sea,  fond  lover,  — 
Cold  in  darkness  the  sea-winds  blow  ! 
Waves,  and  clouds,  and  the  night  will  cover 

All  your  passion  and  all  your  woe  : 
Sobbing  waves  and  the  death  that  is  in  them, 

Sweet  as  the  lips  that  once  you  prest  — 
Pray  that  your  hopeless  heart  may  win  them 

Pray  that  your  weary  life  may  rest ! 


Set  your  face  to  the  stars,  fond  lover,  — 
Calm,  and  silent,  and  bright,  and  true  ! 

They  will  pity  you,  they  will  hover 
Tenderly  over  the  deep,  for  you. 


74  Refuge. 

Winds  of  heaven  will  sigh  your  dirges, 
Tears  of  heaven  for  you  be  spent, 

And  sweet,  for  you,  will  the  murmuring  surges 
Pour  the  wail  of  their  low  lament. 


SEMPER   IDEM. 

'"PHIS  is  the  place  where  he  brought  her  home 

Home,  —  but  not  to  his  heart,  I  know: 
For  it  cannot  be  but  her  memories  roam 

To  the  first  and  the  true  love,  long  ago  ! 
Noble,  and  lovely,  and  wretched  bride, 

Doomed,  in  her  gorgeous  palace  of  stone, 
Loveless  forever,  to  sit  by  his  side, 

And  yet  be,  for  ever  and  ever,  alone  ! 

Noble  and  beautiful  spirit  of  love  ! 

Well,  I  can  wish  you  were  happy,  —  though 
I  stand  out  here,  while  the  stars  above 

Are  as  white  and  cold  as  the  ground  below. 
I  am  glad  that  the  splendour  is  all  your  own  ; 

I  do  not  desire  it  —  ah,  not  I  ! 
But  am  well  content,  at  the  foot  of  your  throne, 

To  sink  in  the  frozen  street,  and  die. 


•j6  Semper   Idem. 

Perhaps  you  would  see  me,  then  —  who  knows  ? 

Perhaps  you  would  see,  in  my  haggard  face, 
Whence  they  have  risen  —  your  subtle  woes, 

And  the  something  that  saddens  your  stately  grace. 
Perhaps  —  ah  me,  I  am  bold  indeed  !  — 

Perhaps  you  would  touch  me  !  Heart  and  brain  ! 
I  am  sure  it  would  make  the  old  wound  bleed, 

If  it  did  not  wake  me  to  life  again  ! 

Lost  —  but  I  love  you  all  the  same  : 

'T  was  a  faithful  heart  that  you  threw  away  : 
I  can  say  it  now,  and  with  nothing  of  shame, 

For  I  shall  not  live  to  another  day. 
I  can  say,  though  the  night  of  grief  was  long, 

That  the  light  of  morning  struggles  through  ; 
And,  lifted  out  of  my  sorrow  and  wrong, 

If  I  cannot  live,  I  can  die,  for  you  ! 


ACROSS    THE    BIER. 


TVJOW  she  lies  here,  dead  before  you, 
•*•  ^     Motionless  and  grey  as  stone ; 
Now  the  cruel  grief  broods  o'er  you, 

Stricken,  agonized,  and  lone  ; 
Now  that  passion's  dream  is  past, 
Well  it  is  we  meet  at  last ! 

Ay,  you  loved  her  —  loved  her  truly  — 
With  the  utmost  faith  of  man  ; 

Sacrificing  all  things,  duly, 
As  a  noble  lover  can  ! 

And  she  made  you  —  what  I  see  ; 

What 't  is  well  that  you  can  be. 

Loved  her  ?    Virtue,  truth,  and  honour, 
Sense,  and  manhood  —  what  are  they  ? 


78  Across  the  Bier. 

Stand  up  here,  and  look  upon  her ! 

'T  is  a  pretty  piece  of  clay. 
Others,  quite  as  fond  and  true, 
Loved  her,  quite  as  well  as  y< 


vou. 


So  I  pity  you,  poor  dreamer 

(Would  to  God  our  dreams  were  long  !), 
And  I  would  not  make  it  seem  her 

Guilt,  that  e'er  she  did  me  wrong. 
She  was  heavenly  —  cloud  and  star  ; 
She  was  what  the  angels  are. 

Hope  and  wait ;  and  when  you  meet  her, 

With  them,  in  the  Eden  plain, 
Clasp  her  to  your  soul,  and  greet  her, 

With  a  word  of  noble  pain. 
Tell  her,  in  yon  starry  cope, 
That  I  taught  you  how  to  hope. 

Time  and  tide  flow  on  forever  ; 

Pleasure's  ghost  is  always  pain  ; 
Life  is  fevered  with  endeavour, 

Sad  with  loss,  and  sVeet  with  gain. 
But  there  is  no  certain  bliss 
In  this  world  for  only  this. 


Across  the  Bier. 

Look  up  bravely  where,  forgiven, 
Erring  hearts  repentant  rest: 

Only  love  and  trust  find  heaven  ! 
Still  the  faithful  are  the  blest : 

Faithful  love,  that  ransoms  you, 

Well  may  save  your  idol  too. 

But,  for  me  there  is  no  morrow, 
Crown  of  love  nor  crown  of  fame  : 

I  must  tread  a  mighty  sorrow 
In  the  mire  of  sensual  shame. 

Down  I  grovel  on  the  earth, 

Wasting  toward  a  brutish  birth  ! 

'Tis  a  world  of  commonplaces, 
Empty  hearts,  and  shallow  brains, 

Flaunting  fools  with  specious  faces, 
Black  desires,  and  crimson  stains. 

When  I  found  that  heart  untrue, 

Love  itself  was  falsehood  too. 

Always  round  us  are  the  curses, 
And  the  long,  tumultuous  roar : 


79 


8o  Across  the  Bier. 

We  are  jostled  in  our  hearses, 

Even  as  we  were  before. 
They  alone  escape  the  strife 
Who  attain  the  spirit's  life. 

Hope,  I  say,  till  you  receive  her ; 

Hope,  for  we  are  only  men. 
Lay  her  in  the  grave,  and  leave  her 

Just  your  heart,  to  keep  till  then. 
Take  my  blessing —  for  I  know 
All  your  love  and  all  your  woe. 


AFTER    LONG    YEARS. 


heart,  and  true,  in  the  seasons  fled, 
•*-^     Has  the  world  swept  by  me,  and  left  me  dead  ? 

Have  the  pansies  withered,  I  used  to  know  ? 
Are  the  roses  faded,  of  long  ago  ? 

Do  the  tapers  glimmer,  that  lit  the  feast? 

Has  the  pageant  passed  ?  has  the  music  ceased  ? 

And,  musing  here  on  the  sea-beat  coast, 
Am  I  living  man,  or  a  wandering  ghost? 


Still,  in  the  scent  of  the  autumn  air 
I  feel  a  rapture  that 's  like  despair : 
6 


82  After  Long  Years. 

The  starlight,  pale  on  the  sleeping  sea, 
Is  a  nameless,  sorrowful  joy  to  me  : 

And,  lit  by  orb  or  crescent  of  night, 
Meadow  and  woodland  are  brave  to  sight. 

Still  I  bend  to  the  mystic  power 

Of  the  strange  sea-breeze  and  the  breath  of  flower 

And  the  face  of  beauty  wakes  the  wraith 
Of  holy  passion  and  knightly  faith  ! 


But,  ever  I  hear  an  undertone  — 

A  subtle,  sorrowful,  wordless  moan  ; 

The  dying  note  of  a  funeral  bell ; 
The  faltering  sigh  of  a  last  farewell : 

And  ever  I  see,  through  lurid  haze, 
The  sombre  phantoms  of  other  days  ; 

In  light  that 's  sad  as  the  ruin  it  frets, 
The  solemn  light  of  a  sun  that  sets. 


After  Long  Years.  83 


Ah,  never  again  can  youth  dream  on 

As  it  used  to  dream  in  the  summers  gone  ! 

For  round  it  dashes  the  tide  of  years  ; 
Its  eyes  are  darkened  with  mist  of  tears  ; 

Its  hopes  are  sere  as  the  fading  grass, 
And  nothing  it  wished  has  come  to  pass. 

Yet  ever,  in  wayward,  passionate  power, 

Like  a  wind  that  moans  through  a  ruined  tower, 

O'er  memory's  darkening  fields  along 
It  rustles  the  fallen  leaves  of  song : 

And,  wild  in  the  heart,  it  wakes  the  thrill 
That  nothing  but  death  can  ever  still ! 


THEIR   STORY. 


r  I  ''HEY  walked  beside  the  summer  sea, 
And  watched  the  slowly  dying  sun ; 
And  'O,'  she  said,  'come  back  to  me, 

My  love,  my  own,  my  only  one  ! ' 
But  while  he  kissed  her  fears  away, 

The  gentle  waters  kissed  the  shore, 
And,  sadly  whispering,  seemed  to  say, 

He  '11  come  no  more  !  he  '11  come  no  more 


Alone  beside  the  autumn  sea 

She  watched  the  sombre  death  of  day; 
And  '  O,'  she  said,  'remember  me, 

And  love  me,  darling,  far  away  ! ' 
A  cold  wind  swept  the  watery  gloom, 

And,  darkly  whispering  on  the  shore, 
Sighed  out  the  secret  of  his  doom,  — 

He  '11  come  no  more  !  he  '11  come  no  more  ! 


Their  Story.  85 


In  peace,  beside  the  winter  sea, 

A  white  grave  glimmers  to  the  moon  ; 
And  waves  are  fresh,  and  clouds  are  free, 

And  shrill  winds  pipe  a  careless  tune. 
One  sleeps  beneath  the  dark  blue  wave, 

And  one  upon  the  lonely  shore  ; 
But,  joined  in  love,  beyond  the  grave, 

They  part  no  more  !  they  part  no  more  ! 


EBB   TIDE. 


T  N  dusky  gloom  she  sits  apart, 

Beyond  the  moonlight's  silver  glow  ; 
And  tender  fancies  break  her  heart, 
That  bloomed,  and  withered,  long  ago. 


Her  patient  eyes  are  wet  with  tears, 
Her  face  is  pale  with  want  and  care, 

And  all  the  griefs  of  all  her  years, 
Transfigured,  crown  her  snowy  hair. 


Gaunt  sorrow  claims  her,  heart  and  brain 
She  bears  the  burden  of  the  cross ; 

She  hears  a  solemn  dirge  of  pain, 
The  sad,  old  song  of  love  and  loss. 


Ebb  Tide.  87 

So  glide  the  lonesome  hours  away; 

The  song  is  still,  the  grief  is  past : 
Alike  to  her  are  night  and  day  — 

And  life  and  trouble  rest  at  last. 


THE   LAST   SCENE. 


T  T  ERE  she  slumbers,  white  and  chill: 

Put  your  hand  upon  her  brow  ; 
Her  sad  heart  is  very  still, 
And  she  does  not  know  you  now. 


Ah,  the  grave  's  a  quiet  bed ; 

She  will  sleep  a  pleasant  sleep, 
And  the  tears  that  you  may  shed 

Will  not  wake  her,  —  therefore  weep  ! 


Weep,  —  for  you  have  wrought  her  woe  ; 

Mourn,  —  she  mourned  and  died  for  you 
Ah,  too  late  we  come  to  know 

What  is  false  and  what  is  true ! 


RUE. 


'"PHE  autumn  wind  is  moaning  in  the  leaves, 

And  the  long  grass  is  rustling  on  my  grave  : 
Ah,  would  you  have  me  think  your  heart  now  grieves 
For  her  your  waning  passion  would  not  save  ? 


For  I  am  dead  ;  know  you  not  I  am  dead  ? 

Why  will  you  haunt  me  in  my  rest  to-night,  — 
Standing  above,  and  listening  overhead, 

Where  I  am  buried,  deep,  and  out  of  sight  ? 


Have  you  not  wine  and  music,  in  your  home, 
And  her  fair  form,  and  eyes  so  pure  and  proud 

With  love  of  you  ?  and  wherefore  do  you  roam 
To  vex  me,  lying  silent  in  my  shroud  ? 


90  Rue. 

Seek  your  new  love  !     She  calls  you,  and  the  tears 
Are  warm  on  her  pale  face,  and  her  young  breast 

Is  full  of  doubt  and  sorrow  —  for  she  hears 
Low-whispered  words,  that  startle  her  from  rest. 

In  from  the  night !  the  storm  begins  to  stir : 
I  will  be  near,  and  ghostly  eyes  shall  see 

How  you  will  kiss  her  lips,  and  say  to  her, 
1  Thine  always,  love,'  as  once  you  said  to  me. 


AFTER   ALL. 


T~*HE  apples  are  ripe  in  the  orchard, 
The  work  of  the  reaper  is  done, 
And  the  golden  woodlands  redden 
In  the  blood  of  the  dying  sun. 


At  the  cottage-door  the  grandsire 
Sits,  pale,  in  his  easy-chair, 

While  a  gentle  wind  of  twilight 
Plays  with  his  silver  hair. 


A  woman  is  kneeling  beside  him  ; 

A  fair  young  head  is  prest, 
In  the  first  wild  passion  of  sorrow, 

Against  his  aged  breast. 


92  After  All. 

And  far  from  over  the  distance 

The  faltering  echoes  come, 
Of  the  flying  blast  of  .trumpet 

And  the  rattling  roll  of  drum. 

Then  the  grandsire  speaks,  in  a  whisper,  — 

'  The  end  no  man  can  see  ; 
But  we  give  him  to  his  country, 

And  we  give  our  prayers  to  Thee.' . .  . 

The  violets  star  the  meadows, 
The  rose-buds  fringe  the  door, 

And  over  the  grassy  orchard 
The  pink-white  blossoms  pour. 

But  the  grandsire's  chair  is  empty, 

The  cottage  is  dark  and  still, 
There  's  a  nameless  grave  in  the  battle-field, 

And  a  new  one  under  the  hill. 

And  a  pallid,  tearless  woman 
By  the  cold  hearth  sits,  alone  ; 

And  the  old  clock  in  the  corner 
Ticks  on  with  a  steady  drone. 


PREDESTINED. 


A     CALM,  cold  face,  as  white  and  clear 
•^*-    As  marble,  and  as  passionless  : 
Eyes  darkly  sad,  that  tell  no  fear, 
No  hope,  no  pleasure,  no  distress  : 


A  smile,  that  seems  all  o'er  to  sleep, 
As  sleeps  a  sunbeam  on  a  stone  ; 

A  quiet  voice,  but  soft  and  deep, 
And  full  of  music,  every  tone  : 

.A  courtly  manner,  —  he  is  true 
To  social  usage,  and  will  pay 

To  all  the  world  its  proper  due 
Of  graceful,  stately  courtesy  :  — 


94  Predestined. 

Behold,  an  awful  thought  it  is 
That  such  a  ghastly,  gaunt  despair 

Can  wear  a  shape  so  grand  as  this, 
A  face  so  noble  and  so  fair  ! 

For  that  is  not  a  common  grief 

Which  tears  his  heart  and  burns  his  brain 
Who  feels  eternity  too  brief 

For  his  tremendous  trance  of  pain  ! 

Whose  soul  endures  infernal  woes, 
Enchained  by  some  infernal  spell ; 

Who  knows  not  peace,  but  only  knows 
The  lurid,  withering  fires  of  hell ! 


ORGI A. 
A   RHAPSODY  OF  MADNESS. 


"\  T  7 HO  cares  for  nothing  alone  is  free,  — 

Sit  down,  good  fellow,  and  drink  with  me  ! 


With  a  careless  heart  and  a  merry  eye, 

He  laughs  at  the  world,  as  the  world  goes  by. 

He  laughs  at  power,  and  wealth,  and  fame ; 
He  laughs  at  virtue,  he  laughs  at  shame ; 

He  laughs  at  hope,  and  he  laughs  at  fear  ; 
At  memory's  dead  leaves,  crisp  and  sere  ; 

He  laughs  at  the  future,  cold  and  dim,  — 
Nor  earth  nor  heaven  is  dear  to  him. 

O,  that  is  the  comrade  fit  for  me  ! 
He  cares  for  nothing,  his  soul  is  free, 


96  Orgia. 

Free  as  the  soul  of  the  fragrant  wine  — 
Sit  down,  good  fellow,  my  heart  is  thine  ! 

For  I  heed  not  custom,  creed,  nor  law  ; 
I  care  for  nothing  that  ever  I  saw. 

In  every  city  my  cups  I  quaff, 

And  over  the  chalice  I  riot  and  laugh. 

I  laugh,  like  the  cruel  and  turbulent  wave  ; 
I  laugh  at  the  church,  and  I  laugh  at  the  grave. 

I  laugh  at  joy,  and  well  I  know, 
That  I  merrily,  merrily  laugh  at  woe  ! 

I  terribly  laugh,  with  an  oath  and  a  sneer, 
When  I  think  that  the  hour  of  death  is  near. 

For  I  know  that  death  is  a  guest  divine, 

Who  shall  drink  my  blood  as  I  drink  this  wine. 

And  he  cares  for  nothing !  a  king  is  he  — 
Come  on,  old  fellow,  and  drink  with  me  ! 


Orgia.  97 

With  you  I  will  drink  to  the  solemn  past, 
Though  the  cup  that  I  drain  should  be  my  last. 

I  will  drink  to  the  phantoms  of  love  and  truth  ; 
To  ruined  hopes  and  a  wasted  youth. 

I  will  drink  to  the  woman  who  wrought  my  woe, 
In  the  diamond  morning  of  long  ago  : 

To  a  heavenly  face,  in  sweet  repose, 

To  the  lily's  snow,  and  the  blood  of  the  rose  ; 

To  the  splendour,  caught  from  orient  skies, 
That  thrilled  in  the  dark  of  her  hazel  eyes,  — 

Her  large  eyes,  wild  with  the  fire  of  the  south,  — 
And  the  dewy  wine  of  her  warm,  red  mouth. 

I  will  drink  to  the  thought  of  a  better  time  ; 
To  innocence,  gone  like  a  death-bell  chime. 

I  will  drink  to  the  shadow  of  coming  doom  ; 
To  the  phantoms  that  wait  in  my  lonely  tomb. 
7 


B  Orgia. 

I  will  drink  to  my  soul,  in  its  terrible  mood, 
Dimly  and  solemnly  understood. 

And,  last  of  all,  to  the  monarch  of  sin, 

Who  conquered  that  palace,  and  reigns  within. 

My  sight  is  fading  —  it  dies  away  — 
I  cannot  tell  is  it  night  or  day. 

My  heart  is  burnt  and  blackened  with  pain, 
And  a  horrible  darkness  crushes  my  brain. 

I  cannot  see  you  —  the  end  is  nigh  — 
But  we'll  laugh  together  before  I  die. 

Through  awful  chasms  I  plunge  and  fall 


EREBUS. 


r~pHERE  's  a  mossy,  sunken  grave, 
In  the  solemn  land  of  dreams, 

All  alone ; 

Where  the  dusky  branches  wave 
O'er  the  banks  of  sable  streams, 

With  a  moan  : 
A  dull  sky  spans  it  overhead, 

Like  a  tomb ; 
The  wan  stars  glimmer  far  away 

In  the  gloom  ; 
And  a  pale  moon  gleams 
On  the  haunts  of  the  dead, 
Where  the  ghouls  and  the  demons  play. 
And  the  souls  that  wander  here 
See  each  other  very  clear  ; 
And  remember,  —  but  weep  not ! 
Remember,  —  but  sleep  not ! 

Remember,  —  but  cannot  pray  ! 


CI RCE. 


T  T  is  the  law  of  streams  to  run, 

Of  autumn  leaves  to  fall ; 
And  she  who  has  been  false  to  one  — 
She  will  be  false  to  all. 


O,  wild  as  tempest  on  the  sea 

Is  that  poor  lover's  fate, 
Whose  faithful  spirit,  bound  to  thee, 
Must  hope,  and  fear,  and  wait ! 


By  surge  of  joy  and  storm  of  pain 
His  heart  is  soothed  or  broke  ; 

He  would  not  rend  thy  heavenly  chain 
He  cannot  bear  thy  yoke. 


Circe. 

There  is  no  heaven  so  high  as  faith, 
No  hell  so  deep  as  doubt, 

No  haunted  spectre  like  the  wraith 
Thy  fancies  wile  or  flout ! 


Ah,  let  that  tiger  heart  of  thine, 

By  brutish  mercy  led, 
To  just  one  piteous  act  incline  — 

And  strike  thy  lover  dead  ! 


Then,  let  the  streams  forever  run, 

The  leaves  forever  fall ! 
Thou  wilt— at  last  —be  true  to  one, 

And  not  be  false  to  all. 


ROSEMARY. 


HP  HE  moonbeams  on  the  water  sleep, 

In  breathing  light ; 

And  tender  thoughts  and  memories  keep 
My  soul  to-night. 


Shades  of  sweet  hours,  forever  gone, 

Come,  all  unsought, 
And  waves  of  mournful  joy  dance  on 

The  stream  of  thought. 


A  dreamy  fragrance  seems  to  rise 
From  other  years  — 

A  solemn  bliss,  that  dims  the  eyes 
With  happy  tears. 


Rosemary.  1 03 

Life  wears  the  glow  of  rosy  grace 

That  once  it  wore, 
And  smiles  are  lit  on  many  a  face 

That  smiles  no  more. 

The  gentle  friends  I  used  to  greet, 

All,  all  are  here  : 
All  forms  are  fair,  all  voices  sweet, 

All  memories  dear. 

All  happy  thoughts,  all  glorious  dreams, 

That  once  were  mine, 
Rise,  in  the  tender  light  that  beams 

From  auld  lang  syne. 

But  something  in  the  heart  is  wrong,  — 

The  joyous  sway, 
The  spirit,  and  the  voice  of  song 

Have  died  away. 

These  winds,  that  on  their  cloudy  cars 

Sweep  through  the  sky, 
These  wandering,  watching,  deathless  stars, 

My  prayer  deny. 


104  Rosemary. 

These  low,  sweet  murmurs  from  the  land 

And  from  the  sea, 

These  waves,  that  kiss  the  silver  sand, 
Speak  not  to  me. 

And  not  to  me  one  voice  shall  speak 

For  evermore, 
Though  the  same  waves  in  beauty  break 

On  the  same  shore. 

Shine  stars,  sob  waves,  and  murmur  blast, 

And  night-dews,  weep ! 
To  wait  is  left  me,  and  at  last 

The  dreamless  sleep. 


THE   UNDERTONE. 


T  T  droops  and  dies  in  morning  light  — 
The  rose  that  yesterday  was  whole  : 
'  Ah,  whither,  on  the  wind  of  night, 
Is  borne  the  fragrance  of  my  soul  ? ' 


It  sinks  upon  the  ocean  zone  — 
The  wind  that  marred  the  tender  rose  ; 

'  Ah,  whither  has  the  fragrance  flown, 
And  what  shall  give  my  soul  repose  ? ' 


It  breaks  upon  the  rocky  shore  — 
The  vast,  tumultuous,  grieving  sea : 

'  Ah,  never,  never,  never  more 

Can  love  and  peace  come  back  to  me  ! ' 


106  The  Undertone. 

It  sobs,  far  up  the  lonely  sky, 

It  faints  in  regions  of  the  blest  — 
The  endless,  bitter,  human  cry, 
—  And  only  God  could  tell  the  rest. 


THE  GOLDEN   SILENCE. 


"\  ~\  7  HAT  though  I  sing  no  other  song  ? 

What  though  I  speak  no  other  word  ? 
Is  silence  shame?     Is  patience  wrong  ?  — 
At  least  one  song  of  mine  was  heard  : 


One  echo  from  the  mountain  air, 
One  ocean  murmur,  glad  and  free  — 

One  sign  that  nothing  grand  or  fair, 
In  all  this  world,  was  lost  to  me. 


I  will  not  wake  the  sleeping  lyre  ; 

I  will  not  strain  the  chords  of  thought ; 
The  sweetest  fruit  of  all  desire 

Comes  its  own  way,  and  comes  unsought. 


io8  The  Golden  Silence. 

Though  all  the  bards  of  earth  were  dead, 
And  all  their  music  passed  away, 

What  nature  wishes  should  be  said 
She  '11  find  the  rightful  voice  to  say  ! 

Her  heart  is  in  the  shimmering  leaf, 
The  drifting  cloud,  the  lonely  sky, 

And  all  we  know  of  bliss  or  grief 
She  speaks,  in  forms  that  cannot  die. 

The  mountain  peaks  that  shine  afar, 
The  silent  stars,  the  pathless  sea, 

Are  living  signs  of  all  we  are, 
And  types  of  all  we  hope  to  be. 


SOLACE. 

[E.  C.  W.] 


A  H,  Lily,  when  my  head  lies  low, 
•**     In  yonder  quiet,  woodland  dell,  — 
Where  the  wild-flowers  will  sweetly  blow, 
Above  the  eyes  that  loved  them  well,  — 
How  soon  thy  sorrow  would  depart, 
If  word  of  mine  could  soothe  thy  heart! 


Somewhere,  some  day,  we  '11  meet  again  ! 

Think  this  — and  be  this  thought  relief 
In  life  I  have  not  brought  thee  pain  ; 

In  death  I  must  not  bring  thee  grief. 
Strew  with  the  flowers  of  hope  my  pall, 
And  gently  mourn,  or  not  at  all ! 


EGERIA. 


'"pHE  star  I  worship  shines  alone, 
In  native  grandeur  set  apart ; 
Its  light,  its  beauty,  all  my  own, 
And  imaged  only  in  my  heart. 


The  flower  I  love  lifts  not  its  face 
For  other  eyes  than  mine  to  see  ; 

And,  having  lost  that  sacred  grace, 
'T  would  have  no  other  charm  for  me. 


The  hopes  I  bear,  the  joys  I  feel, 
Are  silent,  secret,  and  serene  ; 

Pure  is  the  shrine  at  which  I  kneel, 
And  purity  herself  my  queen. 


Egeria.  1 1 

I  would  not  have  an  impious  gaze 
Profane  the  altar  where  are  laid 

My  hopes  of  nobler,  grander  days, 
By  heaven  inspired,  by  earth  betrayed. 

I  would  not  have  the  noontide  sky 
Pour  down  its  bold,  obtrusive  light 

Where  all  the  springs  of  feeling  lie, 
Deep  in  the  soul's  celestial  night. 

Far  from  the  weary  strife  and  noise, 
The  tumult  of  the  great  to-day, 

I  guard  my  own  congenial  joys, 
And  keep  my  own  sequestered  way. 

For  all  that  world  is  cursed  with  care ; 

Has  nothing  holy,  nothing  dear, 
No  light,  no  music  anywhere,  — 

It  will  not  see,  it  will  not  hear. 

But  thou,  sweet  spirit,  viewless  power, 
Whom  I  have  loved  and  trusted  long,  — 

In  pleasure's  day,  in  sorrow's  hour,  — 
Muse  of  my  life  and  of  my  song  ; 


Egeria. 

Breathe  softly,  thou,  with  peaceful  voice, 
In  my  soul's  temple,  vast  and  dim  ! 

In  thy  own  perfect  joy  rejoice, 

With  morning  and  with  evening  hymn  ! 

And  though  my  hopes  around  me  fall 
Like  rain-drops  in  a  boundless  sea, 

I  will  not  think  I  lose  them  all 
While  yet  I  keep  my  trust  in  thee  ! 


A   DIRGE: 

IN   MEMORY   OF   GEORGE   ARNOLD. 
GREENWOOD,  NOVEMBER  13,  1863 

I  )  ENEATH  the  still  November  sky, 

With  nature's  peace  and  beauty  blest, 
We  put  our  selfish  sorrow  by, 

And  laid  our  comrade  down  to  rest. 

Rest  —  in  the  morning  of  his  days  ! 

Rest  —  when  his  heart  had  just  begun 
To  feel  the  warmth  of  all  men's  praise, 

The  radiance  of  the  rising  sun  ! 

Rest  —  to  a  strong  and  stately  mind, 
That  rose  all  common  flights  above  ! 

Rest  —  to  a  heart  as  true  and  kind 
As  ever  glowed  with  human  love  ! 


ii4         In  Memory  of  George  Arnold. 

And  round  him,  dimly,  through  our  grief, 
In  every  natural  sound  we  heard  — 

In  whispering  grass,  and  rustling  leaf, 
And  sighing  wind  —  the  same  sweet  word 

Rest !     And  we  did  not  break  the  spell, 

By  holy  nature  woven  round 
The  fading  form  we  left  to  dwell 

Forever  in  her  hallowed  ground. 

No  hymns  were  sung,  no  prayers  were  said, 
Save  what  our  loving  hearts  could  say, 

When,  mutely  gazing  on  the  dead, 
We  blessed  him  ere  we  turned  away : 

Back  to  the  round  of  daily  care 
That  seems  so  vacant  to  us  now, 

Remembering  what  repose  was  there, 
What  peace,  upon  his  marble  brow. 

And  so  we  left  him,  —  nevermore 
To  see,  in  sunshine  or  in  rain, 

The  semblance  of  the  form  he  wore 
Whose  loss  has  steeped  our  souls  in  pain. 


///  Memory  of  George  Arnold.          1 1 5 

But,  long  as  skies  of  autumn  smile, 
And  long  as  clouds  of  autumn  weep, 

Or  autumn  leaves  their  splendours  pile 
In  sorrow  o'er  their  poet's  sleep  ; 

And  long  as  violets  grace  the  spring, 
Or  June-born  roses  blush  and  blow, 

Or  pale  stars  shine,  or  south  winds  sing, 
Or  tides  of  summer  ebb  and  flow ; 

So  long  shall  live  their  poet's  name, 
When  rest  these  broken  hearts  of  ours, — 

Embalmed  in  love,  surpassing  fame, 

With  stars  and  leaves  and  clouds  and  flowers! 


A  DIRGE: 

IN   MEMORY   OF   ADA    CLARE. 
DIED  MARCH  4,  1874. 

O  PRING  will  return  and  woods  grow  green 

From  shore  to  shore ; 
But  she,  unseeing  and  unseen, 

Returns  no  more. 

Low  in  the  ground  her  sleep  is  sweet, 

And  dark,  and  long  : 
No  more  she  treads,  with  wandering  feet, 

Our  maze  of  wrong. 

No  more  the  world's  rebuke  can  fret 

Her  soul's  repose; 
Nor  kindness  woo  her  to  forget 

Her  bitter  woes. 


///  Memory  of  Ada  Clare.  \  1 7 

She  will  not  stir,  nor  speak,  nor  heed, 

Though  eyes  that  weep, 
And  sorrow-stricken  hearts,  that  bleed, 

Beseech  her  sleep. 

Yet,  be  it  mine,  above  her  pall, 

To  shed  one  tear  ; 
And  speak  one  word  of  love,  that  all 

The  world  may  hear. 

A  brother's  place  in  that  fond  breast 

'T  was  mine  to  hold : 

Ah,  they  loved  most  who  knew  her  best  — 
That  heart  of  gold. 

She  was  more  kind  than  morning  light 

To  eyes  that  grieve  ; 
And  constant  as  the  star  of  night, 

That  can't  deceive. 

There  was  no  sorrow  on  this  earth 

But  touched  her  heart ; 
And  in  all  gentle,  childlike  mirth 

She  bore  her  part. 


n8  In  Memory  of  Ada  Clare. 

There  was  no  goodness,  but  it  won 

Her  reverent  praise ; 
And  full  of  kind  deeds,  simply  done, 

Were  all  her  days. 

She  strove,  through  trouble's  lasting  blight, 

For  pathways  smooth  ; 
And  many  hands  she  found  to  smite, 

And  few  to  soothe. 

A  child,  whom  cruel  want  has  made 

A  thing  forlorn, 
Stretching  its  little  hands,  for  aid, 

To  eyes  that  scorn  ; 

And  wandering  through  the  winter  night, 

For  beggar's  dole, 
Is  not  more  piteous  in  its  plight 

Than  was  her  soul. 

Yet  did  she  hope,  and  toil,  and  wait, 

Heaven's  will  to  know, 
Till  came  the  awful  stroke  of  fate 

That  laid  her  low. 


In  Memory  of  Ada  Clare.  \  \  9 

Sleep  softly,  softly,  true  and  tried, 

Where  troubles  cease ; 
And  take  at  last,  what  man  denied, 

God's  gift  of  peace. 


— 


GOOD-BYE  TO  BROUGHAM. 


READ  AT  A  BANQUET  TO  JOHN  BROUGHAM,  AT  THE  LOTOS  CL 
N.  Y.,  JUNE  4,  1874. 


T  F  buds  by  hopes  of  spring  are  blessed 

That  sleep  beneath  the  snow, 
And  hearts  by  coming  joys  caressed, 

Which  yet  they  dimly  know, — 
On  fields  where  England's  daisies  gleam, 

And  Ireland's  shamrocks  bloom, 
To-day  shall  summer,  in  her  dream, 

Be  glad  with  thoughts  of  Brougham. 


To-day,  o'er  miles  and  miles  of  sea, 

Beneath  the  jocund  sun. 
With  merrier  force  and  madder  glee 

The  bannered  winds  shall  run : 


Good-bye  to  Brougham. 

To-day  great  waves  shall  ramp  and  reel, 
And  clash  their  shields  of  foam, 

With  bliss  to  feel  the  coming  keel 
That  bears  the  wanderer  home  ! 

For  he  that  (loved  and  honoured  here  — 

God  bless  his  silver  head  !) 
O'er  many  a  heart,  for  many  a  year, 

The  dew  of  joy  has  shed, 
Longs  for  the  land  that  gave  him  birth, 

Turns  back  to  boy  again, 
And,  bright  with  all  the  flags  of  mirth, 

Sails  homeward  o'er  the  main. 

Ah,  well  may  winds  and  waves  be  gay, 

And  flowers  and  streams  rejoice, 
And  that  sweet  region,  far  away, 

Become  one  greeting  voice  ; 
For  he  draws  backward  to  that  place, 

Who  ne'er,  by  deed  or  art, 
Made  darkness  in  one  human  face, 

Or  sorrow  in  one  heart ! 

He  comes,  whom  all  the  rosy  sprites, 
Round  humour's  throne  that  throng, 


122  Good-bye  to  Brougham. 

Have  tended  close  through  golden  nights 

Of  laughter,  wit,  and  song  ; 
Whom  love's  bright  angels  still  have  known 

He  ne'er  forgot  to  hear 
The  helpless  widow's  suppliant  moan, 

Or  dry  the  orphan's  tear. 

Where  boughs  of  oak  and  willow  toss, 

His  life's  white  pathway  flows  — 
With  many  an  odour  blown  across, 

Of  lily  and  of  rose. 
His  gentle  life  that  blessings  crown 

Is  fame  no  chance  can  dim  ; 
And  we  honour  manhood's  best  renown 

When  now  we  honour  him. 

Ambition's  idols  crowned  to-day 

To-morrow  are  uncrowned  ; 
Their  fragments  are  of  common  clay, 

Strewn  on  the  common  ground  ; 
But  unto  monarchs  of  the  heart 

Are  crowns  immortal  given  ; 
And  they  who  choose  this  better  part 

Are  anchored  fast  on  Heaven. 


Good-bye  to  Brougham.  123 

Grief  may  stand  silent  in  the  eye, 

And  silent  on  the  lip, 
When,  poised  between  the  sea  and  sky, 

Dips  down  the  fading  ship ; 
But  there  's  one  charm  his  heart  to  keep 

And  hold  his  constant  mind  — 
He  '11  find  no  love  beyond  the  deep 

Like  that  he  leaves  behind  ! 


So,  to  thy  breast,  old  ocean,  take 

This  brother  of  our  soul  ! 
Ye  winds,  be  gentle  for  his  sake  ! 

Ye  billows,  smoothly  roll ! 
And  thou,  sad  Ireland,  green  and  fair, 

Across  the  waters  wild, 
Stretch  forth  strong  arms  of  loving  care, 

And  guard  thy  favourite  child  ! 


And  whether  back  to  us  he  drift, 
Or  pass  beyond  our  view, 

Where  life's  celestial  mountains  lift 
Their  peaks  above  the  blue  — 


124  Good-bye  to  Brougham. 

God's  will  be  done  !  whose  gracious  will, 
Through  all  our  mortal  fret, 

The  sacred  blessing  leaves  us  still,  — 
To  love,  and  not  forget. 


HAND   IN    HAND. 


READ  AT  A  BANQUET  TO  JOHN  LAWRENCE  TOOLE,  AT  THE 
Loros  CLUB,  N.  Y.,  AUGUST  6.  1874. 


HPHE  odour  that  all  sense  delights 

Enchants  us  most  on  summer  nights ; 
And  music,  nature's  kindest  boon, 
Breathes  gentlest  underneath  the  moon  ; 
For  summer  night  and  moonlight  give 
Quiet  and  grace,  in  which  we  live  ; 
In  which  alone  the  prisoned  soul 
Finds,  if  not  words,  at  least  control, 
And,  for  a  moment,  lifts  us  far 
Toward  realms  where  saints  and  angels  are. 
So  friendship's  soft  and  tender  voice 
Sounds  clearest  when  our  hearts  rejoice  : 


126  Hand  in  Hand. 

For,  when  contentment  warms  the  heart, 

Selfish  and  sordid  cares  depart, 

Dulness  exhales  —  and  in  their  place 

Burns  the  rich  glow  of  peace  and  grace. 

And  then  we  see  eacli  other  clear ; 

The  voice  within  the  voice  we  hear ; 

And  deep  thoughts  surge  to  eye  and  cheek, 

Nor  words,  nor  smiles,  nor  tears  can  speak ! 

The  old  love-ditties  that  were  sung, 

The  whispered  vows,  when  we  were  young, 

The  silken  touch  of  fragrant  tress, 

The  maiden's  awful  loveliness, 

Starlight  and  sea-breeze,  beach  and  spray, 

The  sunshine  of  some  sacred  day, 

A  mother's  kiss  on  lip  and  brow, 

The  tones  of  loved  ones,  silent  now, 

The  light  that  nevermore  will  gleam, 

The  broken  hope,  the  vanished  dream  — 

All  these  come  thronging  through  the  brain, 

Till,  half  with  joy  and  half  with  pain, 

Our  souls  break  loose  from  common  things, 

And  soar  aloft  on  angel  wings  ; 

Out  of  the  tumult  and  the  glare, 

The  fretful  strife,  the  feverish  care, 


Hand  in  Hand.  127 

To  that  great  life  of  peace  and  grace 
Which  waits  the  suffering  human  race; 
That  larger  life  than  sight  or  sound, 
Wherewith  God's  goodness  folds  us  round.  — 
This  is  the  magic,  this  the  power, 
That  thrills  and  crowns  the  festal  hour ! 


'T  is  summer,  and  the  moon  is  bright, 
And  perfect  gladness  rules  this  night, 
And  through  our  rapture,  gracious,  free, 
A  silver  voice,  across  the  sea, 
In  tender  accents  whispers  sweet  — 
'  Be  kind  to  him  whom  now  you  greet  ! 
At  England's  fireside  altar-stone 
His  fame  is  prized,  his  virtue  known  : 
To  England's  heart  his  name  is  dear  ; 
To  him  she  gives  her  smile,  her  tear; 
She  loves  him  for  his  rosy  mirth  ; 
She  loves  him  for  his  manly  worth  ; 
She  knows  him  bright  as  morning  dew  ; 
She  knows  him  faithful,  tender,  true; 
Her  hope  comes  with  him  o'er  the  deep,- 
With  him  to  smile,  with  him  to  weep; 


128  Hand  in  Hand. 

Ah,  give  him  friendship  that  endures, 
And  take  him  from  her  heart  to  yours.'  — 
That  voice  is  heard !     By  deed  and  cheer, 
We  give  him  loyal  welcome  here  ! 
In  art's  fair  garden,  where  we  stand, 
We  take  him  by  the  strong  right  hand  ; 
In  friendship's  cup  the  pledge  we  drain, 
And  bind  him  fast  in  friendship's  chain. 
Honour  the  man,  whate'er  his  stage, 
Who  wields  the  arts  to  cheer  the  age ! 


Ah,  comrades,  if  I  could  but.  say 

(To  point  and  close  this  humble  lay) 

What  other  voices  float  to  me, 

Across  another,  darker  sea, 

What  words  of  cheer  are  wafted  through 

My  fancy's  realm,  to  him  and  you,  — 

A  music  then  indeed  might  flow, 

Should  make  your  hearts  and  pulses  glow. 

For  then  would  ring  out,  rich  and  deep, 

The  royal  tones  of  some  who  sleep,  — 

The  brilliant  and  the  wise,  too  soon 

Snatched  from  our  side  ;  in  manhccd's  neon 


•  Hand  in  Hand. 

Ere  genius  half  her  vigil  kept ; 
For  whom  our  hearts  and  morning  wept  : 
And  these  a  welcome,  without  stint, — 
My  feeble  words  can  only  hint,  — 
Should  give  this  friend  and  comrade,  come 
So  far  from  kindred  and  from  home. 
But,  this  denied,  I  prattle  on,  — 
The  echo,  when  the  music 's  gone  ; 
With  yet  the  hope  that  words  well-meant 
May  find  a  grace  for  good  intent, 
With  you,  companions,  tried  and  dear, 
With  him,  the  guest  that 's  honoured  here. 
Nor  will  I  think  he  views  with  scorn 
These  rhymes  of  welcome,  lowly  born  ; 
These  wild-wood  roses,  faint  but  sweet,  — 
In  kindness  scattered  at  his  feet. 


129 


COMRADES. 


READ  AT  A  BANQUET  TO  GEORGE  FAWCETT  RO\VE,  AT  THE 
LOTOS  CLUB,  N.  Y.,  AUGUST  29,  1875. 


A  T  morning,  when  the  march  began, 

And  hope's  strong  eagle  waved  her  wing, 
Through  banks  of  flowers  the  pathway  ran, 
Beneath  the  silver  skies  of  spring. 

We  heard  the  mountain  torrents  call, 
Far  up  among  the  peaks  of  snow  ; 

Our  happy  laughter  rang  through  all 
The  peaceful  valleys  spread  below. 

Our  hearts  were  glad,  our  faces  gay, 
We  trod  the  slopes  with  careless  glee, 

And  through  the  hill-gaps,  far  away, 
Hailed  the  blue  splendours  of  the  sea. 


Comrades.  131 

We  knew  no  peril,  felt  no  fear, 

Nor  thought  how  swift  the  moments  pass  : 
The  sighing  pines  we  did  not  hear, 

Nor  our  own  footsteps  on  the  grass. 

But  day  wears  on  and  night  is  near, 
Gray  banners  mingle  with  the  gold, 

Our  ranks  are  thin,  our  faces  drear, 
The  sky  is  dark,  the  wind  is  cold  ; 

We  hear  the  roaring  of  the  waves 
Of  that  great  sea  to  which  we  tend ; 

Our  thoughts  are  in  the  wayside  graves, 
And  on  the  solemn  journey's  end. 

No  more  in  vain  the  pine-trees  sigh, 
Full  well  their  mournful  note  is  known ; 

No  footsteps  pass  unheeded  by, 
No  more  unheeded  fall  our  own. 

No  more  we  hear  the  joyous  cries 
Reechoed  back  from  vale  and  hill ; 

The  light  has  faded  from  our  eyes, 
The  music  of  our  youth  is  still. 


132  Comrades. 


Bereft  of  many  a  friend  of  yore, 
Whom  fate  and  nature  set  apart 

To  hear  and  heed  forevermore 

The  dead  leaves  rustling  in  the  heart, 


How  should  I  sing  a  joyous  song 

Whose  thoughts  are  where  the  cypress  blooms, 
And  autumn  afternoons  are  long, 

And  silence  dreams  among  the  tombs  ! 


Ah,  Heaven  is  kind  that  gives  me  grace, 

Through  good  and  ill,  through  toil  and  pain, 

To  hold  in  yet  more  close  embrace 
The  cherished  comrades  that  remain  ! 


He,  dear  to  all,  whose  gracious  fame 
Is  goodness,  bright  beyond  eclipse  ; 

He,  tried  and  true,  whose  honoured  name 
Is  in  your  hearts  as  on  your  lips  ;  — 


Comrades.  133 

He  shall  not,  in  this  royal  hour, 
Lack  words  of  mine,  my  faith  to  prove ; 

And,  though  they  be  not  words  of  power, 
They  shall  at  least  be  words  of  love. 

His  the  light-hearted,  cheery  mirth  — 
The  snow-white  bloom  of  blameless  days  — 

Wisdom  and  grace  and  manly  worth, 
An  honest  mind  and  simple  ways. 

His  the  pure  thought,  the  spirit  sweet, 
The  wild-wood  charm  of  graceful  art, 

The  sadness  and  the  joy  that  meet 
In  nature's  own  benignant  heart. 

Him  fortune  never  taught  to  fawn, 

Want  never  sued  to  him  in  vain  : 
The  word  is  spoken  and  is  gone, 

The  actions  of  the  just  remain. 

On  wings  of  deeds  the  soul  must  mount! 

When  God  shall  call  us,  from  afar, 
Ourselves,  and  not  our  words,  will  count  — 

Not  what  we  said,  but  what  we  are  ! 


134  Comrades. 

Ah,  be  it  mine,  or  soon  or  late, 

In  that  great  day,  in  that  bright  land, 

With  him  as  now  to  take  my  fate, 

Heart  answering  heart,  hand  clasped  in  hand 


IN   MEMORY   OF  POE. 


READ  AT  THE  DEDICATION  OF  THE  MONUMENT  TO  EDGAR  ALLAN 
POE,  AT  BALTIMORE,  NOVEMBER  19,  1875. 


/"*OLD  is  the  paean  honour  sings, 

And  chill  is  glory's  icy  breath, 

And  pale  the  garland  memory  brings 

To  grace  the  iron  doors  of  death. 

Fame's  echoing  thunders,  long  and  loud, 
The  pomp  of  pride  that  decks  the  pall, 

The  plaudits  of  the  vacant  crowd  — 
One  word  of  love  is  worth  them  all  ! 

With  dew  of  grief  our  eyes  are  dim  : 
Ah,  bid  the  tear  of  sorrow  start  ; 

And  honour,  in  ourselves  and  him, 
The  great  and  tender  human  heart  ! 


136  In  Memory  of  Poe. 

Through  many  a  night  of  want  and  woe 
His  frenzied  spirit  wandered  wild, 

Till  kind  disaster  laid  him  low, 
And  love  reclaimed  its  wayward  child. 

Through  many  a  year  his  fame  has  grown,  — 
Like  midnight,  vast ;  like  starlight,  sweet,  — 

Till  now  his  genius  fills  a  throne, 
And  homage  makes  his  realm  complete. 

One  meed  of  justice,  long  delayed, 
One  crowning  grace  his  virtues  crave  ! 

Ah,  take,  thou  great  and  injured  shade, 
The  love  that  sanctifies  the  grave. 

And  may  thy  spirit,  hovering  nigh, 
.     Pierce  the  dense  cloud  of  darkness  through, 
And  know,  with  fame  that  cannot  die, 
Thou  hast  the  world's  compassion  too  ! 


THE   VOICE   OF   THE   SILENCE. 


READ  BEFORE  THE  SOCIETY  OF  THE  ARMY  OF  THE  POTOMAC,  AT 
THE  ACADEMY  OF  Music,  PHILADELPHIA,  JUNE  6,  1876. 


"D RIGHT  on  the  sparkling  sward,  to-day, 
•^    The  youthful  summer  gleams  ; 
The  roses  in  the  south  wind  play ; 

The  slumberous  woodland  dreams  : 
In  golden  light,  'neath  clouds  of  fleece, 

Mid  bird-songs  wild  and  free, 
The  blue  Potomac  flows,  in  peace, 

Down  to  the  peaceful  sea. 

No  echo  from  the  stormy  past 

Alarms  the  placid  vale  — 
Nor  cannon  roar,  nor  trumpet  blast, 

Nor  shattered  soldier's  wail. 
There  's  nothing  left  to  mark  the  strife, 

The  triumph,  or  the  pain, 


138  The  Voice  of  the  Silence. 

Where  nature  to  her  general  life 
Takes  back  our  lives  again. 

Yet,  in  your  vision,  evermore, 

Beneath  affrighted  skies, 
With  crash  of  sound,  with  reek  of  gore, 

The  marshal  pageants  rise  : 
Audacious  banners  rend  the  air, 

Dark  steeds  of  battle  neigh, 
And  frantic  through  the  sulphurous  glare 

Raves  on  the  crimson  fray  ! 

Not  time  nor  chance  nor  change  can  drown 

Your  memories  proud  and  high, 
Nor  pluck  your  star  of  greatness  down 

From  glory's  deathless  sky ! 
Forevermore  your  fame  shall  bide  — 

Your  valour  tried  and  true ; 
And  that  which  makes  your  country's  pride 

May  well  be  pride  to  you  ! 

Forever  through  the  soldier's  thought 
The  soldier's  life  returns  — 


The  Voice  of  the  Silence.  139 

Or  where  the  trampled  fields  are  fought, 

Or  where  the  camp-fire  burns. 
For  him  the  pomp  of  morning  brings 

A  thrill  none  else  can  know: 
For  him  night  waves  her  sable  wings 

O'er  many  a  nameless  woe. 

How  often,  face  to  face  with  death, 

In  stern  suspense  he  stood, 
While  bird  and  insect  held  their  breath 

Within  the  ambushed  wood ! 
Again  he  sees  the  silent  hills, 

With  danger's  menace  grim  ; 
And  darkly  all  the  shuddering  rills 

Run  red  with  blood  for  him. 

For  him  the  cruel  sun  of  noon 

Glares  on  a  bristling  plain  ; 
For  him  the  cold  disdainful  moon 

Lights  meadows  rough  with  slain. 
There  's  death  in  every  sight  he  sees, 

In  every  sound  he  hears  ; 
And  sunset  hush  and  evening  breeze 

Are  sad  with  prisoned  tears. 


1 40  The   Voice  of  the  Silence. 

Again  worn  out  in  midnight  march, 

He  sinks  beside  the  track  ; 
Again  beneath  the  lonely  arch 

His  dreams  of  home  come  back  ; 
In  morning  wind  the  roses  shake 

Around  his  cottage-door, 
And  little  feet  of  children  make 

Their  music  on  the  floor. 

The  tones  that  nevermore  on  earth 

Can  bid  his  pulses  leap, 
Ring  out  again,  in  careless  mirth, 

Across  the  vales  of  sleep  ; 
And  where,  in  horrent  splendour,  roll 

The  waves  of  victory's  tide, 
The  chosen  comrades  of  his  soul 

Are  glorious  at  his  side  ! 

Forget !  the  arm  may  lose  its  might, 

The  tired  heart  beat  low, 
The  sun  from  heaven  blot  out  his  light, 

The  west  wind  cease  to  blow  ; 
But,  while  one  spark  of  life  is  warm 

Within  this  mould  of  clay, 


The   Voice  of  the  Silence.  141 

His  soul  will  revel  in  the  storm 
Of  that  tremendous  day! 

On  mountain  slope,  in  lonely  glen, 

By  fate's  divine  command, 
The  blood  of  those  devoted  men 

Has  sanctified  this  land  ! 
The  funeral  moss  —  but  not  in  grief  — 

Waves  o'er  their  hallowed  rest ; 
And  not  in  grief  the  laurel  leaf 

Drops  on  the  hero's  breast ! 

Tears  for  the  living,  when  God's  gift  — 

(The  friend  of  man  to  be)  — 
Wastes,  like  the  shattered  spars  that  drift 

Upon  the  unknown  sea  ! 
Tears  for  the  wreck  who  sinks  at  last,  — 

No  deed  of  valour  done ; 
But  no  tears  for  the  soul  that  past 

When  honour's  fiirht  was  won  ! 


He  takes  the  hand  of  Heavenly  Fate, 
Who  lives  and  dies  for  truth  ! 


142  The   Voice  of  the  Silence. 

For  him  the  holy  angels  wait, 
In  realms  of  endless  youth  ! 

The  grass  upon  his  grave  is  green 
With  everlasting  bloom  ; 

And  love  and  blessing  make  the  sheen 
Of  glory  round  his  tomb ! 

Mourn  not  for  them,  the  loved  and  gone  ! 

The  cause  they  died  to  save 
Plants  an  eternal  corner-stone 

Upon  the  martyr's  grave  : 
And,  safe  from  all  the  ills  we  pass, 

Their  sleep  is  sweet  and  low, 
'Neath  requiems  of  the  murmuring  grass 

And  dirges  of  the  snow. 

That  sunset  wafts  its  holiest  kiss 

Through  evening's  gathering  shades, 
That  beauty  breaks  the  heart  with  bliss 

The  hour  before  it  fades, 
That  music  seems  to  merge  with  heaven 

Just  when  its  echo  dies, 
Is  nature's  sacred  promise  given 

Of  life  beyond  the  skies  ! 


The  Voice  of  the  Silence.  143 

Mourn  not !  in  life  and  death  they  teach 

This  thought  —  this  truth  —  sublime  : 
There  's  no  man  free,  except  he  reach 

Beyond  the  verge  of  time  ! 
So,  beckoning  up  the  starry  slope, 

They  bid  our  souls  to  live  ; 
And,  flooding  all  the  world  with  hope, 

Have  taught  us  to  forgive. 

No  soldier  spurns  a  fallen  foe  ! 

No  hate  of  human-kind 
Can  darken  down  the  generous  glow 

That  fires  the  patriot  mind  ! 
But  love  shall  make  the  vanquished  strong 

And  justice  lift  their  ban, 
Where  right  no  more  can  bend  to  wrong 

Nor  man  be  slave  to  man. 

So  from  their  quiet  graves  they  speak  ; 

So  speaks  that  quiet  scene  — 
Where  now  the  violet  blossoms  meek, 

And  all  the  fields  are  green. 
There  wood  and  stream  and  flower  and  bird 

A  pure  content  declare  ; 


144  The   Voice  of  the  Silence. 

And  where  the  voice  of  war  was  heard 
Is  heard  the  voice  of  prayer. 

Once  more  in  perfect  love,  O  Lord, 

Our  aliened  hearts  unite  ; 
And  clasp,  across  the  broken  sword, 

The  hands  that  used  to  smite  ! 
And  since  beside  Potomac's  wave 

There  's  nothing  left  but  peace, 
Be  filled  at  last  the  open  grave, 

And  let  the  sorrow  cease. 

Sweet,  from  the  pitying  northern  pines, 

Their  loving  whisper  flows  ; 
And  sweetly,  where  the  orange  shines, 

The  palm-tree  woos  the  rose  : 
Ah,  let  that  tender  music  run 

O'er  all  the  years  to  be  ; 
And  Thy  great  blessing  make  us  one  — 

And  make  us  one  with  Thee  ! 


EDELWEISS. 


READ  AT  THE  LOTOS  CLUB  BANQUET  TO  JOHN  GILBERT,  COM- 
MEMORATIVE OF  THE  COMPLETION  OF  HIS  FIFTIETH  YEAR  AS 
AN  ACTOR,  NOVEMBER  30,  1878. 


"I  T  7HERE,  pure  and  p^le,  the  starlight  streams 

Far  down  the  Alpine  slope, 
Still  through  eternal  winter  gleams 

The  stainless  flower  of  hope  ! 
Undimmed  by  cloud,  undrenched  by  tears, 

So  may  his  laurel  last,  — 
While  shines  o'er  all  his  future  years 

The  rainbow  of  the  past ! 


Far,  far  from  him  the  mournful  hour 
That  brings  the  final  Call  — 


146  Edelweiss. 

And  o'er  his  scenes  of  grace  and  power 

Fate  lets  the  Curtain  fall ! 
And  O,  when  sounds  that  knell  of  worth, 

To  his  pure  soul  be  given 
A  painless  Exit  from  the  earth, 

And  Entrance  into  Heaven  ! 


A    PLEDGE    TO   THE    DEAD. 


IEAD  BEFORE  THE  SOCIETY  OF  THE  ARMY  OF  THE  POTOMAC,  AI 
A  BANQUET  IN  THE  DELAVAN  HOUSE,  AT  ALBANY,  N.  V. 
JUNE  18,  1879. 


T^ROM  the  lily  of  love  that  uncloses 

In  the  glow  of  a  festival  kiss, 
On  the  wind  that  is  heavy  with  roses, 

And  shrill  with  the  bugles  of  bliss, 
Let  it  float  o'er  the  mystical  ocean 

That  breaks  on  the  kingdom  of  night  — 
Our  oath  of  eternal  devotion 

To  the  heroes  who  died  for  the  right ! 

n. 

They  loved,  as  we  love  —  yet  they  parted 
From  all  that  man's  spirit  can  prize  ; 

Left  woman  and  child  broken-hearted, 
Staring  up  to  the  pitiless  skies  ; 


148  A  Pledge  to  the  Dead. 

Left  the  tumult  of  youth,  the  rich  guerdon 
Hope  promised  to  conquer  from  fate  ; 

Gave  all  for  the  agonized  burden 
Of  death,  for  the  Flag  and  the  State. 

in. 
Where  they  roam  on  the  slopes  of  the  mountain 

That  only  by  angels  is  trod, 
Where  they  muse  by  the  crystalline  fountain 

That  springs  in  the  garden  of  God, 
Are  they  lost  in  unspeakable  splendour  ? 

Do  they  never  look  back  and  regret  ?  — 
Ah,  the  valiant  are  constant  and  tender, 

And  Honour  can  never  forget ! 

IV. 

Divine  in  their  pitying  sadness 

They  grieve  for  their  comrades  of  enrth ; 
They  will  hear  us,  and  start  into  gladness, 

And  echo  the  notes  of  our  mirth  ; 
They  will  lift  their  white  hands  with  a  blessing 

We  shall  know  by  the  tear  that  it  brings  — 
The  rapture  of  friendship  confessing, 

With  harps  and  the  waving  of  wings. 


A  Pledge  to  the  Dead.  149 


In  the  grim  and  relentless  upheaval 

That  blesses  the  world  through  a  curse, 
Still  bringing  the  good  out  of  evil  — 

The  garland  of  peace  on  the  hearse  !  — 
They  were  shattered,  consumed,  and  forsaken, 

Like  the  shadows  that  fly  from  the  dawn  : 
We  may  never  know  why  they  were  taken, 

But  we  always  shall  feel  they  are  gone. 


If  the  wind  that  sighs  over  our  prairies 

No  longer  is  solemn  with  knells, 
But  lovely  with  flowers  and  fairies, 

And  sweet  with  the  calm  Sabbath  bells ; 
If  virtue,  in  cottage  and  palace, 

Leads  love  to  the  bridal  of  pride, 
'T  is  because  out  of  war's  bitter  chalice 

Our  heroes  drank,  deeply  —  and  died. 


Ah,  grander  in  doom-stricken  glory 
Than  the  greatest  that  linger  behind, 


150  A  Pledge  to  the  Dead. 

They  shall  live  in  perpetual  story, 
Who  saved  the  last  hope  of  mankind  ! 

For  their  cause  was  the  cause  of  the  races 
That  languished  in  slavery's  night ; 

And  the  death  that  was  pale  on  their  faces 
Has  filled  the  whole  world  with  its  light ! 


To  the  clouds  and  the  mountains  we  breathe  it ; 

To  the  freedom  of  planet  and  star ; 
Let  the  tempests  of  ocean  enwreathe  it ; 

Let  the  winds  of  the  night  bear  it  far,  — 
Our  oath,  that,  till  manhood  shall  perish, 

And  honour  and  virtue  are  sped, 
We  are  true  to  the  cause  that  they  cherish, 

And  eternally  true  to  the  dead  ! 


THE   CHIEFTAIN. 


READ  AT  THE  ATLANTIC  FESTIVAL  IN  COMMEMORATION  OF  THE 
SEVENTIETH  BIRTHDAY  OF  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES,  AT  THE 
HOTEL  BRUNSWICK,  BOSTON,  DECEMBER  3,  1879. 


TF  that  glad  song  had  ebbed  away, 

Which,  rippling  on  through  smiles  and  tears, 
Has  bathed  with  showers  of  diamond  spray 

The  rosy  fields  of  seventy  years,  — 
If  that  sweet  voice  were  hushed  to-day, 
What  should  we  say  ? 


At  first  we  thought  him  but  a  jest, 
A  ray  of  laughter,  quick  to  fade  ; 

We  did  not  dream  how  richly  blest 
In  his  pure  life  our  lives  were  made  : 

Till  soon  the  aureole  shone,  confest, 
Upon  his  crest. 


152  The  Chieftain. 


When  violets  fade  the  roses  blow  ; 

When  laughter  dies  the  passions  wake  : 
His  royal  song,  that  slept  below, 

Like  Arthur's  sword  beneath  the  lake, 
Long  since  has  flashed  its  fiery  glow 
O'er  all  we  know. 

IV. 

That  song  has  poured  its  sacred  light 
On  crimson  flags  in  freedom's  van, 

And  blessed  their  serried  ranks,  who  fight 
Life's  battle  here  for  truth  and  man  — 

An  oriflamme,  to  cheer  the  Right, 
Through  darkest  night ! 


That  song  has  flecked  with  rosy  gold 
The  sails  that  fade  o'er  fancy's  sea  ; 

Relumed  the  storied  days  of  old  ; 
Presaged  the  glorious  life  to  be  ; 

And  many  a  sorrowing  heart  consoled, 
In  grief  untold. 


The  Chieftain.  153 


When,  shattered  on  the  loftiest  steep 
The  statesman's  glory  ever  found, 

That  heart,  so  like  the  boundless  deep, 
Broke,  in  the  deep  no  heart  can  bound, 

How  did  his  dirge  of  sorrow  weep 
O'er  WEBSTER'S  sleep ! 


How  sweetly  did  his  spirit  pour 

The  strains  that  make  the  tear-drops  start, 
When,  on  this  bleak  New  England  shore, 

With  Tara's  harp  and  Erin's  heart, 
He  thrilled  us,  to  the  bosom's  core, 
With  thoughts  of  MOORE! 


The  shamrock,  green  on  Liffey's  side, 
The  lichen  'neath  New  England  snows, 

White  daisies  of  the  fields  of  Clyde, 
Twined  ardent  round  old  Albion's  rose, 

Bloom  in  his  verse,  as  blooms  the  bride, 
With  love  and  pride. 


154  The  Chieftain. 


The  silken  tress,  the  mantling  wine, 
Red  roses,  summer's  whispejing  leaves, 

The  lips  that  kiss,  the  hands  that  twine, 
The  heart  that  loves,  the  heart  that  grieves 

They  all  have  found  a  deathless  shrine 
In  his  rich  line  ! 


Ah  well,  that  voice  can. charm  us  yet, 
And  still  that  shining  tide  of  song, 

Beneath  a  sun  not  soon  to  set, 
In  golden  music  flows  along. 

With  dew  of  joy  our  eyes  are  wet  — 
Not  of  regret. 


For  still,  as  comes  the  festal  day, 
In  many  a  temple,  far  and  near, 

The  words  that  all  have  longed  to  say, 
The  words  that  all  are  proud  to  hear, 

Fall  from  his  lips,  with  conquering  sway. 
Or  grave  or  gay. 


The  Chieftain.  155 


No  moment  this  for  passion's  heat, 
Nor  mine  the  voice  to  give  it  scope, 

When  love  and  fame  and  beauty  meet 
To  crown  their  Memory  and  their  Hope ! 

I  cast  white  lilies,  cool  and  sweet, 
Here  at  his  feet. 


True  bard,  true  soul,  true  man,  true  friend! 

Ah,  gently,  on  that  reverend  head 
Ye  snows  of  wintry  age  descend, 

Ye  shades  of  mortal  night  be  shed  ! 
Peace  guide  and  guard  him  to  the  end, 
And  God  defend ! 


THE    LOTOS    FLOWER. 

READ   AT  A   FESTIVAL  TO  CELEBRATE  THE  TENTH    BIRTHDAY 
OF  THE  LOTOS  CLUB,  NEW  YORK,  MAKCH  27,  1880. 


THROUGH  still  the  heart  of  twilight  grieves, 

As  evening's  sun  sinks  low, 
And  sad  winds  stir  the  fallen  leaves 

With  songs  of  Long  Ago, 
No  shadow  grim  can  ever  dim 

The  glory  of  this  hour, 
When  thus  the  blazing  hearth  we  trim 

Beneath  the  Lotos  Flower. 


Old  Time  may  quench  illusion's  light, 
And  dreams  of  youth  depart, 

But  neither  time  nor  truth  can  blight 
The  sunshine  of  the  heart  — 


The  Lotos  Flower. 

That  gentle  light  of  pure  content, 
Our  sober  manhood's  dower, 

Sweet  peace  and  calm  affection,  blent 
Beneath  the  Lotos  Flower. 

in. 
In  that  dusk  land  of  mystic  dream 

Where  dark  Osiris  sprung, 
It  bloomed  beside  his  sacred  stream, 

While  yet  the  world  was  young, 
And  every  secret  nature  told, 

Of  golden  wisdom's  power, 
Is  nestled  still  in  every  fold 

Within  the  Lotos  Flower. 


Here  let  our  weary  burdens  fall, 

And  passion's  longings  cease  : 
The  gods  of  life  have  given  all, 

When  once  they  give  us  peace  ! 
Black  care  shall  vanish  in  a  laugh, 

Forgot  be  beauty's  bower, 
When  thus  the  loving  cup  we  quaff, 

Beneath  the  Lotos  Flower  ! 


'57 


ELEGY   IN   ARLINGTON    CEMETERY. 
DECORATION  DAY,   1880. 


TF  this  were  all,  if  lost  with  those  that  perished,  — 
O'er  whom  these  winds  of  summer  softly  sigh,  — 
Our  hopes  were  buried  with  the  hearts  we  cherished, 
And  life  were  nothing  but  to  toil  and  die ; 

What  sadder  scene  than  this  that  blooms  before  us, 
With  nature's  garlands  decked,  could  earth  display  ? 

What  mocker)'  were  this  heaven  that's  bending  o'er  us, 
Glad  with  the  sunshine  of  the  glittering  May  ! 

But  here,  where  late  with  naked  branches  striving,  — 
Wet  with  the  icy  tears  of  wintry  grief,  — 

Across  this  lonely  field  of  sorrow  driving 
The  angry  tempest  whirled  the  withered  leaf; 


Elegy  in  Arlington  Cemetery.  159 

Now  swings  the  pendant  bloom,  now  opening  roses 
Woo  the  soft  zephyrs  with  their  balmy  breath  ; 

Boughs  wave,  birds  sing,  and  silver  mist  reposes, 
In  bliss,  above  these  emerald  waves  of  death. 

And  sure  the  Power,  that  out  of  desolation 
Can  thus  the  arid  wastes  of  earth  relume, 

Ne'er  meant  the  crown  of  all  this  vast  creation 
One  hour  of  woe,  and  then  the  eternal  tomb  ! 

But,  were  this  all — were  hope  with  being  ended, 
In  these  dark  cells  that  shrine  our  sacred  dead; 

Were  all  our  prayers  and  tears  in  vain  expended, 
Our  passion,  labour,  faith  forever  sped  ; 

Who  would  not  yet — all  selfish  impulse  spurning — 
Live  for  mankind,  and  triumph  with  the  just ! 

Who,  from  the  field  of  honour  backward  turning, 
Would  trail  a  sullied  ensign  in  the  dust ! 

Though  fate  were  cruel,  human  will  undaunted, 
Supreme  o'er  torture,  regnant  over  time, 

Can  quell  the  bitterest  foe  that  ever  vaunted 
This  mortal  frailty,  which  were  nature's  crime  ! 


160  Elegy  in  Arlington  Cemetery. 

It  may  be  —  every  generous  trust  forbidden  — 
That,  while  these  beauteous  orbs  of  ruin  roll, 

From  the  dark  sleep  in  which  the  dead  are  hidden 
A  flower  can  wake,  but  not  the  human  soul : 

Yet,  sweet  is  every  love  and  every  longing  ; 

Yet  shines  the  dream  of  heaven  in  childhood's  eyes  ; 
And  troops  of  angel  phantoms  still  come  thronging 

To  fancy's  vision  in  the  twilight  skies  : 

Yet  stirs  the  heart  with  nameless,  vague  emotion, 
When  moonlight  sleeps  upon  the  summer  sea ; 

Yet  forest  depths,  and  lonely  wastes  of  ocean, 
And  mountain  voices  set  the  spirit  free  : 

And,  borne  on  wings  of  glorious  endeavour, 
Man  yet  can  soar  above  his  baser  clay  — 

Throned  in  high  deeds,  forever  and  forever, 
That  cannot  die,  and  will  not  pass  away! 

II. 
High  were  their  deeds,  o'er  whom  our  hearts  are  weeping! 

Safe  bides  their  fame,  in  all  men's  love  and  praise  ! 
Hallowed  the  mould  in  which  their  dust  is  sleeping, 

And  sweet  the  memory  that  has  crowned  their  days  ! 


Elegy  in  Arlington  Cemetery.  161 

Ah,  once  for  them  young  hope  unveiled  her  splendour  ! 

Ah,  once  for  them  time  ran  in  golden  sands ! 
They  knew  affection's  accents,  soft  and  tender ; 

They  felt  the  touch  of  loving  lips  and  hands. 

They  saw  the  awful  face  of  sovereign  Beauty  ; 

White  arms  of  proud  Ambition  lured  them  on  ; 
But  in'their  hearts  breathed  low  the  voice  of  duty  — 

They  heard  it,  and  they  answered :  they  are  gone. 

The  midnight  wind  was  cold  upon  their  faces,  — 
Pale  in  the  silence  of  the  crimson  sod  ; 

But  who  shall  paint,  through  what  resplendent  spaces 
Their  souls  sprang  upward  to  the  light  of  God  ! 

No  more,  for  them,  in  summer  twilight's  glimmer, 
Shall  distant  music  smite  the  chords  of  pain  : 

No  more,  as  evening  shades  grow  slowly  dimmer, 
Shall  wandering  fragrance  pierce  the  tortured  brain  ! 

No  more  of  lingering  doubt,  nor  stern  denial, 
Nor  baffled  toil,  nor  slow,  embittering  strife  .' 

But  now,  at  once,  the  crown  of  earthly  trial,  — 
The  long,  long  summer  of  eternal  life  ! 


1 62  Elegy  in  Arlington  Cemetery. 

Calm-fronted,  staunch,  expectant,  and  unshaken, 
Who  dares  the  worst  that  any  fate  can  bring  — 

For  him,  by  iron  purpose  ne'er  forsaken, 
The  grave  no  victory  has,  and  death  no  sting  t 

We  can  but  serve  :  some,  by  the  instant  giving 
Of  all  that  hand  could  do  or  heart  could  prize  ; 

Some,  by  a  meek,  laborious,  patient  living, 
A  daily  toil,  an  hourly  sacrifice. 

We  falter  on,  now  hoping,  now  despairing, 
And  hour  by  hour  drag  out  life's  little  span  : 

They  passed,  in  one  tremendous  deed  of  daring,  — 
They  lived  for  honour,  and  they  died  for  man  ! 

Pile  thick  the  amaranth  and  the  myrtle  o'er  them  — 
For  whom  our  laurelled  banners  flash  and  flow  — 

Roses  that  love,  and  pansies  that  deplore  them, 
And  lilies,  weeping  from  their  hearts  of  snow. 

Breathe  low  ye  murmuring  pines,  ye  whisperinggrasses! 

Ye  dews  of  summer  night  fall  softly  here  ! 
Be  sorrow's  sigh  in  every  breeze  that  passes, 

And  every  rain-drop  be  a  mourner's  tear ! 


Elegy  in  Arlington  Cemetery.  163 

And  O,  ye  stars,  ye  holy  lights  that  cumber 
The  deep  of  heaven,  pour  benedictions  down  ! 

Shed  your  sweet  incense  on  this  sacred  slumber — 
Bright  as  our  love,  and  pure  as  their  renown  ! 

Breathe  our  farewell !  ah,  very  gently  breathe  it,  — 
Like  ocean's  murmur  in  the  coral  shell, 

And  tender  as  the  sea-flowers  that  enwreathe  it,  — 
Forever  and  forevermore,  Farewell ! 


GOOD-BYE   TO    BOOTH. 


READ  AT  A  FAREWELL  BANQUET   TO   EDWIN   BOOTH,  AT  DEL- 
MONICO'S,  NEW  YORK,  JUNE  15,  1880. 


T  T  IS  barque  will  fade,  in  mist  and  night, 

Across  the  dim  sea-line, 
And  coldly  on  our  aching  sight 

The  solemn  stars  will  shine  — 
All,  all  in  mournful  silence,  save 

For  ocean's  distant  roar  — 
Heard  where  the  slow,  regretful  wave 

Sobs  on  the  lonely  shore. 


But,  O,  while,  winged  with  love  and  prayer, 
Our  thoughts  pursue  his  track, 

What  glorious  sights  the  midnight  air 
Will  proudly  waft  us  back  ! 


Good-bye  to  Booth.  165 

What  golden  words  will  flutter  down 

From  many  a  peak  of  fame, 
What  glittering  shapes  of  old  renown 

That  cluster  round  his  name  ! 


O'er  storied  Denmark's  haunted  ground 

Will  darkly  drift  again, 
Dream-like  and  vague,  without  a  sound, 

The  spectre  of  the  Dane  ; 
And  breaking  hearts  will  be  the  wreath 

For  grief  that  knows  no  tear, 
When  shine  on  Cornwall's  storm-swept  heath 

The  blazing  eyes  of  Lear. 


Slow,  mid  the  portents  of  the  storm, 

And  fate's  avenging  powers, 
Will  moody  Richard's  haggard  form 

Pace  through  the  twilight  hours ; 
And  wildly  hurtling  o'er  the  sky 

The  red  star  of  Macbeth,  — 
Torn  from  the  central  arch  on  high,  — 

Go  down  in  dusky  death  ! 


1 66  Good-bye  to  Booth. 


But  —  best  of  all  !  —  will  softly  rise 

His  form  of  manly  grace  — 
The  noble  brow,  the  honest  eyes, 

The  sweetly  patient  face, 
The  loving  heart,  the  stately  mind 

That,  conquering  every  ill, 
Through  seas  of  trouble,  cast  behind, 

Was  grandly  steadfast  still ! 


VI. 


Though  skies  might  gloom  and  tempest  rave, 

Though  friends  and  hopes  might  fall, 
His  constant  spirit,  simply  brave, 

Would  meet  and  suffer  all  — 
Would  calmly  smile  at  fortune's  frown, 

Supreme  o'er  gain  or  loss  ; 
And  he  the  worthiest  wears  the  crown 

That  gently  bore  the  cross  ! 


Be  blythe  and  bright,  thou  jocund  day 
That  golden  England  knows ! 


Good-bye  to  Booth.  167 

Bloom  sweetly  round  the  wanderer's  way, 

Thou  royal  English  rose  ! 
And  English  hearts  [no  need  to  tell 

How  truth  itself  endures  !] 
This  soul  of  manhood  treasure  well, 

Our  love  commits  to  yours  ! 


Farewell !  nor  mist,  nor  flying  cloud, 

Nor  night  can  ever  dim 
The  wreath  of  honours,  pure  and  proud, 

Our  hearts  have  twined  for  him  ! 
But  bells  of  memory  still  shall  chime, 

And  violets  star  the  sod, 
Till  our  last  broken  wave  of  time 

Dies  on  the  shores  of  God. 


FIDELE. 

DIED  AUGUST  15,  1880. 

"  With  fairest  flowers, 

While  summer  lasts,  and  I  live  here,  Fidele^ 
I'll  sweeten  thy  sad  grave."     ' 

SHAKESPEARE. 

A  ND  oh,  to  think  the  sun  can  shine, 

The  birds  can  sing,  the  flowers  can  bloom, 
And  she,  whose  soul  was  all  divine, 
Be  darkly  mouldering  in  the  tomb  : 

That  o'er  her  head  the  night-wind  sighs, 
And  the  sad  cypress  droops  and  moans ; 

That  night  has  veiled  her  glorious  eyes, 
And  silence  hushed  her  heavenly  tones  : 

That  those  sweet  lips  no  more  can  smile, 

Nor  pity's  tender  shadows  chase, 
With  many  a  gentle,  child-like  wile, 

The  rippling  laughter  o'er  her  face  : 


Fidele.  169 

That  dust  is  on  the  burnished  gold 
That  floated  round  her  royal  head ; 

That  her  great  heart  is  dead  and  cold  — 
Her  form  of  fire  and  beauty  dead  ! 

Roll  on,  gray  earth  and  shining  star, 
And  coldly  mock  our  dreams  of  bliss  ; 

There  's  little  glory  left  to  mar, 

Nor  any  grief  more  black  than  this  ! 


TRUE  heart!  upon  the  current  of  -whose  love, 

My  days,  like  roses  in  a  summer  brook. 

Float  by,  in  fragrance  and  in  melody, 

Take  these  —  unworthy  symbols  of  my  soul, 

Made  precious  by  the  heavenly  faith  of  thine  ! 

Take  them:  and,  though  a  face  of  pain  looks  through 

The  marble  veil  of  -words,   thy  heart  mill  know 

That  what  was  shadow  once  is  sunshine  now, 

A  nd  life  all  peace,  and  beauty,  and  content, 

Redeemed  and  hallowed  by  thy  sacred  grace. 

Thrice  happy  he,  -mho— favoured  child  of  fate  I  — 

Finds  his  Egeria  in  a  mortal  guise, 

And,  hearing  all  the  discords  of  the  world 

Blend  into  music,  round  his  haunted  way. 

Knows  hope  fulfilled  and  bliss  already  won  ! 


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